


An Auspice of Scarlet

by AnontheNullifier



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Melodrama, Novel Length, Scarlet Vision Exchange 2017, Some angst, Technically Antebellum US AU, secrets and dark pasts, slowish burn, victorian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-01-05 06:31:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 84,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnontheNullifier/pseuds/AnontheNullifier
Summary: After another failed seance, Wanda Maximoff finds herself seeking asylum from an unknown millionaire and his reserved, but kind butler. As with most things in her life, it's when the semblance of normalcy and contentment begin to form that her past comes crashing in to upend everything she's worked hard to form. Will the blossom of love be enough to vanquish the demons of her past?





	1. In which a seance goes poorly but fate favors the witch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ATendrilOfScarlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ATendrilOfScarlet/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anya - This is my gift to you in thanks for all of the hard work you put in to organizing the Scarlet Vision Exchange. I don't think anyone realizes just how much work it was to take this on and how amazing it is that things went as smoothly as they did. It was my honor to help you where I could and my delight to see all of the amazing Scarlet Vision works that came from the exchange. You are an amazing and wonderful person that I have enjoyed getting to know through our mutual love of Scarlet Vision. Since you put in so much work, as you are aware because I can't keep secrets, I decided to finally fulfill your request (that you made way way long ago, tried to find it but we have had too many conversations on too many stories to locate it easily) to write a Victorian AU of Scarlet Vision. This is against my better judgment, seeing as I am not an AU writer, but because it's for you, I'll deal with it :). I thought having to write the comic book versions of Wanda and Vision was out of my depth, but this story so far has made me feel like a shark stranded in the middle of the Sahara. So I hope you enjoy this and that it is everything you were hoping for with this AU. I don't know how long it will be, but I promise that I will fill it with as much melodramatic romance and angst, secrets and sordid pasts, misunderstandings and dramatic reconciliations in the rain as possible. 
> 
> To everyone else, I adore this fandom and all of you are awesome. I truly hope you enjoy this and don't judge me too harshly on my first experiment with an AU.
> 
> Written for the Scarlet Vision Exchange 2017.

The man holding her hand is trembling, a sickening claminess developing between their palms the longer she feeds the thickening, anticipatory silence. All Wanda wants to do is take her hand back, pack up her things, and eat dinner, but the lack of money to afford food dictates she continue. A deep, well-practiced hum builds in her chest, vibrating up her esophagus before it escapes her lips. There is a gasp in front of her, Harriet, the youngest of the five daughters at the table, no doubt (since she has been gasping about every three seconds), but at least she is receptive and so Wanda tentatively reaches out to her mind.

Despite spending the past three months working exclusively like this, Wanda is still disoriented when touching a mind that is not Pietro’s, the thorn of his name stabbing her heart, wrestling all air from her lungs. She pushes back the pain, the memories, the horror of his loss and instead caresses the surface of Harriet’s mind, searching for something to pull out. A cursory examination reveals only a recently deceased pet, which will have to do. “I believe my spirit guide has arrived.” A flick of Wanda’s finger sends a tendril of scarlet rapping against the underside of the table.

“Oh,” the table shakes as Harriet pounds her feet excitedly on the ground, “What does it look like?”

Wanda breathes in, memorizing the image from Harriet’s mind before pulling her powers out, “A white dog, with well-groomed fur, and a cerulean vest.” Another gasp from across the table is joined by a _harumph_ from Mr. Clammy Hands. “It is informing me its name is Buttons.”

A reminiscent sigh of “My poor poor Buttons” fills the room, allowing enough distraction for Wanda to move on to her next target. An invisible pulse of power shoots into the husband’s head, twisting through his judgmental disregard of her abilities and Wanda has to ignore the ire curled tightly around his thoughts about how much he dislikes having _this_ woman in their home.

“Buttons is running away,” a pained _No_ and a stern _Quiet, Harriet_ , barely register as Wanda delves deeper into the man’s memories, searching for something useful. “He is running towards a figure,” she pauses, trying to remember the advice from the seminar led by the Fox Sisters: give them drama, give them suspense, heightened emotion means heightened gullibility. Wanda drops her voice, emphasizing her accent as she announces: “It is a woman.” The image in the man’s mind clarifies and she can make out every wrinkle on the face, the perennially stray wisp of hair sticking out of the tightly coiled bun that likely horrified such a poised woman, and the intense, hawkish gaze. “She is old.”

A quiet, mournful, “Grandmama…” comes from across the table.

“Harriet,” the connection between their hands break as the girl’s father scolds her, “That is exactly what this…” Wanda parts her eyes enough to watch him gesticulate at her, his voice perfectly conveying his disgust at being a part of this seance, “skilamalink* woman wants.”

The Fox Sisters also emphasized the importance of rearing in the disbelievers, muffling their arguments as efficiently and tersely as possible. They suggested kicking their shin, but Wanda always tries to go for shock, figuring that she should save physical actions for a last-ditch effort. “The spirit has a message for you, Mr. Smith.”

She doesn’t have to watch him to feel the roll of his eyes and the impudence that clings to every movement of his sweaty palms. “Oh, I am sure she does, something about live a long, healthy life of prosperity, and how terribly she misses me and her morning cup of tea on the porch. You are all the same, just-.”

Wanda cuts him off, clenching her fist to grasp the memory firmly, attempting to match her voice to the stern cadence in his mind. “She says to go to the cellar and shove wool in your mouth for misbehaving, Willy.”

Suddenly the room chills, the man motionless, his surprise potent enough to quiet the women surrounding the table. Wanda, for a split second, thinks she might actually have conjured a spirit, until the screech of a chair being pushed back and the thud as it's thrown to the ground causes her to open her eyes to a red face gleaning with sweat, the drops jumping from his mustache into the air as he trembles. “Witch!”

A cacophony fills the room as Harriet screams, falling to the ground, and her sisters join her, crouching low, but Wanda is only focused on Mr. Smith, fingers curling into her palm, her nails digging into her skin, falling into the groove of her long ago acquired scars, horrified at how easily this man rips the red satin cloth from the table, throwing her candles, crystals, and gems onto the floor. All she can seem to think about, as she watches him crumple the cloth, struggle to rip its seams, is how much money this is going to cost if she can’t get it all back. Mr. Smith points an angry, accusatory finger at her, yelling “Witch!” once more before he stalks out of the house.

Wanda looks to the missus for help, but the frizzy-haired woman is pale, could even be a standin for a spirit at a seance, if need be, giving off the impression of being strangled by her high-necked dress. Harriet is even less help, still laying on the ground, surrounded by her sisters who are giggling and fanning her with whatever objects are within reach. Wanda can see Mr. Smith moving outside, slamming his feet in a straight path towards the Hudson and she groans a, “Not again,” before running out of the house after him.

“Mr. Smith!” The futility of talking sense into him does not escape her, yet Wanda always attempts reason first in hopes that one day it will work. William continues his emotional stomp, the tablecloth trailing on the ground, stirring the dirt of the path. Wanda tilts her body forward, steps increasing in pace until she is jogging behind him. Once she catches up to Mr. Smith, she attempts to grab the cloth from him, but his grip is too strong, too fueled by his anger as he fumes, whispering (she can’t tell if it is too her or to the sky) about how easy it would be to reinvoke the witch trials because clearly the people of Salem were on to something.

Eventually another voice follows, a slightly more colored (though still quite pale) Mrs. Smith, with her dress carefully clutched in her hands, pleading “William put her stuff down, this is preposterous,” but he doesn’t. The houses along the path remain silent, though the curtains pull back to reveal curious, terrified faces and Wanda tries to gesture for help, pleading with the bystanders for someone to take pity on her, but each pane is instantly re-covered. “William, please.”

“My house will not suffer a witch.”

Wanda tries one more time to wiggle the cloth free from his hands, but to no avail, and so she re-attempts to reason with him even though she doesn't have to be a witch to foresee it won't have an impact, “I am not a witch.”

They stop, the shallow gulping of water mixing easily with his heavy breathing, and Wanda sighs as Mr. Smith squints at her, a growl developing in his voice as he says. “Then may your spirit guides save your wretched soul.” For the seventh time in the past two weeks she watches as her materials are unceremoniously thrown into the river and then, without another word, she is abandoned.

Wanda stands alone on the riverbank, hands hanging limply at her side, watching as the cloth soaks up the water and begins its descent into the murky depths. An exhausted, fed-up sigh falls from her mouth as she unlaces her boots, strips her stockings from her feet, and hitches her dress up with a thin rope she has learned to carry around just for this situation. Slowly she dips her foot into the water, a half grimace, half relieved smile warring on her face as she wades into the river to collect her materials. Thankfully the sun has not set yet and so the water is tepid, uncomfortable, but not hypothermic.

Even though the temperature of the water is in her favor, the current is not nor are the branches and roots nestled in the sand, catching the tablecloth firmly between a rock and a branch, unwilling to move even with some gentle witchy (she looks over her shoulder before doing this, just to be safe as she’d really prefer not to be known as the first to be burned in the new witch trials) encouragement. It’s only when she braces her feet on two rocks, bending her knees to lower her center of gravity, that she is able to pull hard enough to get the tablecloth loose, but the force of the pull is more than she had intended and it sends her falling backwards into the water. “I,” her hands flop down into the water with a defeated annoyance, “give up.”

Wanda remains sitting in the river, not certain how much time has passed as her thoughts run through the cost of the materials she lost from this seance, certain she will not be eagerly welcomed if she returns later to ask for her candles and gems back. More concerning is that there are only three more families left in the hamlet that she hasn’t contacted, but she’s reluctant to proffer her services, particularly since one is the local minister and his very pregnant wife. Perhaps it is time to move on, yet again. What she does not understand is that, unlike the Fox Sisters who urge vagueness and shifty answers, Wanda actually contacts spirits, well, not real spirits, but the memories of lost loved ones. She does not believe in spiritualism and mesmerism as they teach it because she knows it is all doctored, with wires shoved up sleeves to lift tables, and tin boxes tied to knees to make a rattling sound when a “spirit” enters. Wanda, unlike the rest, actually offers something real, something tangible, but it is as if people are eager to contact the dead until the dead actually respond.

“Pardon me.”

If there is one bright spot to her uncanny ability to be tossed from houses and end up contemplating her life choices in the river, it is that her schedule seems to coincide quite nicely with a handsome, albeit, overdressed gentleman. “Do you always pass by the river at five?”

He hesitates, mouth contorting in amusement as he steps down from the seat of the carriage, his three-piece black suit perfectly matching the black hat on his head and his black-gloved hand dipping into the pocket of his waistcoat to check the time. “Five seventeen, to be exact.”

“Oh well, sorry for my imprecision.”

“It is shameful,” she watches as he examines the ground, feet shuffling the grass from side to side, a curious yet predictable action as he searches for a fallen branch long enough to reach her, never willing to sully the pristine suit on his body by wading into the river. “I will,” his face brightens as he bends down, scooping up a branch and approaching the shore, “excuse your imprecision, however.”

Wanda rolls her eyes as she grips the branch, one well-practiced hoist lifting her to her feet and kickstarting her momentum out of the water. “Thank you.”

“Oh,” a bashful smile flirts with his lips as he drops the branch and waits for her to join him in walking towards the carriage, “you are most welcome.” They walk in silence, his eyes set on their destination, allowing her a brief moment’s glance at his face, the only chance she ever gets to parse out this mysterious man who is going to give her a towel, a sandwich, and then insist he must be going. Wherever he ends up, she is certain it is outdoors, his face tinged with red yet his clothing has to be insufferable in the oppressive June heat. “May I make an inquiry?”

Wanda’s feet halt as her head cocks to the side, taking in the nervous twitch in his shoulders as he grabs the towel and the slight scuffle of his feet as he waits for her to respond. Slowly she accepts the towel, hands acting on their own accord as they bring it to the tips of her hair, lazily blotting the water. “You don’t have to ask me if you can ask a question.”

The concept seems to confuse him, furrow forming between his blonde eyebrows, his gloved hands, now free of the towel, hovering in the air as he contemplates whether to respond to her or continue with the inquiry. Wanda finds her lips lifting at his indecision, about to offer her opinion but he finally chooses a path and forges ahead. “Have you considered a profession that might be,” his hands wave through the air as he attempts to extract the appropriate wording, “less prone to amphibious attacks?”

A small, self-deprecating chuckle falls from her lips, unsure how to answer a question she asks herself almost daily. “Unfortunately, for an unattached woman as myself, the only other options are to be a dressmaker in the city,” not to be confused with a seamstress who would actually fix dresses instead of spend her nights spread eagle on a bed, “or consign myself to servitude and I refuse to be owned by anyone.”

This is not the first time she has defended her decisions in life, but unlike the majority of audiences (mostly in taverns or along the road or on the decks of steamboats as she travels), he seems to actually listen to her words, weigh them, parse out the meaning and other possible options, and then accept what she says with a gentle, affirming nod. “Understandable.”

Though the word is said without judgment, there is an odd, reticent quality to his voice that causes her eyebrow to lift, eyes trained on his back as he swiftly turns away from her, no doubt reaching for her pickled herring sandwich. This is the first time they’ve spoken beyond concerned inquiries as to her well-being, and so, since he opened the line of communication she determines to pry a little deeper to learn more about this man. “What is your calling in life?”

“I am,” he swivels back around, holding a small, carefully wrapped sandwich between them, his face ostensibly serious and neutral, yet his eyes dart to the side as he answers her, “a butler.”

Embarrassment rushes to her cheeks, the fancy three-piece suit, well-planned schedule, and ability to always have on hand exactly what she needs suddenly coalescing into an impossible to deny framework of the ideal butler. “It is a,” it is not like her to save face, always unapologetic in her opinions and emotions, but this man has been far nicer to her than almost any person she has met since immigrating to the United States, far nicer, in fact, than the majority of people she has met since the death of her parents when she was ten, “noble profession.”

A tight smile forms on his face, her feigned admiration transparent, “It is, akin to your reasoning, far preferable than alternative options.” The man’s lips slip into an easier, more controlled and congenial tilt, pulling a slip of paper from a pocket inside the right breast of his jacket. Carefully he holds it out to her, an expectant lift to his eyebrows that encourages her to grab the sheet and unfold it, confusion bubbling in her chest at the evenly spaced, disciplined lines of the numbers and letters. “I have inquired with my,” he pauses, weighing the most appropriate word likely due to her admitted distaste of his lifestyle, “employer and he concurs of my assessment that his estate be available to you for your seances. Due to the distance from the river and the impartial atmosphere, I believe it would be a suitable and, quite arguably, safer location for your work. Please do not hesitate to utilize this offer, I,” his gaze shifts to the murky waves of the Hudson, the alcove nearest the town filled with pockets of green, slimy algae that frames the distant, passing steamboats and barges, “do not object to helping you from the river but would prefer if it was less frequent.”

“I-” very few people have willingingly approached her, the distinctive patchwork fabric of her skirt and the scarlet, jeweled headdress she wears for seances a black mark against her, an experience she, sadly, is far too familiar with even in her home country. Yet this prim and proper man not only somehow is always at the river when she needs help, but he actually helps her, feeds her, speaks with her without reservation, and now, now he offers her his (well not his, his master’s) home. “This is very kind but I do not want to inconvenience you.”

“I assure you it is not an inconvenience.”

Wanda attempts a smile, appreciative of his offer yet hesitant to allow herself to believe there is no ulterior motive. “I will certainly consider it, but I should be leaving, before it gets dark.”

The man’s body freezes, only his eyes showing signs of life as they shift side to side, clearly thrown off by her refusal. “Would you consider an offer to accompany you back to town to ensure your safe return?”

Another foreign and tempting offer but Wanda shakes her head, “I’ll be fine, thank you. I am sure you are a very busy man.” She decides it’s best to walk away, fearing if she remains there looking at the confusion in his eyes or the slightly pained frown on his face that she'll say yes, open herself up to one more avenue of contact that will only end in manipulation, if her past can predict the future. This doesn’t mean that it hurts any less when she hears the carriage rattle, a gentle hut hut as he spurs the horses into action.

Wanda wraps the towel around her shoulders, head held high as she enters the town, not wanting to portray any weakness to the eyes that appear in the windows, disappearing anytime she turns to stare at them. It is a walk that she despises but she will never allow it to render her as lesser in their eyes, steadfastly holding to her confidence. That is until she reaches her tiny dwelling, one she sublets from an elderly woman who occasionally sprinkles salt on the windowsills, and finds the two windows shattered and the door barely hanging on the frame. Scarlet dances around her fingers as she pushes past the door, turning the knob of the lantern hanging on the wall, a spark of red igniting the wick and filling the room with a golden, muted glow as she holds it aloft.

Everything is in disarray. The table flipped on it’s side, the floor strewn with her papers, tarot cards, and the books she had been reading. Her bed is in a similar state, the rickety frame missing two legs and straw spilling out from a large slash in the mattress. Wanda breathes in, attempting to keep the tears from forming in her eyes, fights back the nauseating memories from her final days in Sokovia, of the hysteria, the yelling, the thrown stones, and the pyre, but then she turns to the left, lifting the lantern to inspect the last part of her room and on the wall, in dark red, dripping liquid is the word Witch and she can’t hold back the sob anymore, falling onto her knees as her hand rises to wipe the tears away.

It is time to leave again, that much is clear.

“Wanda?”

The voice startles her, but not enough to cloud her judgment, and so she controls the flow of red tickling her palm, social survival outweighing her instincts to attack. This voice is kind, concerned, but brimming with anger. “Clint.”

More light fills the room as he sets down his own lantern, hand falling lightly, cautiously on her back. Wanda flinches at the touch but does not move away. “I tried to stop them,” if she lifted her finger an inch she would be able to access his memories of the event, but the quiver in his voice and the scrunch of his fingers in the fabric of her dress is enough to spur her imagination. Then the object of his anger shifts, lessening the emotions to annoyance more so than ire. “But you just had to mess with William Smith, didn’t you?”

“His wife offered enough for a month’s worth of food.”

Clint scoffs at her, a sound that should infuriate her but she knows it is down in partial, mostly good-natured mockery, a sign that he might actually care about her well-being. “I thought you listened to me when I explained that Marjory is not the voice of William. Wanda,” this time he sighs, sinking into the chair at her side before leaning back and staring at the ceiling, “that man owns this area, I don’t want you to be the next Helen Jewett**”

Wanda sits up, shaking away the timidity in her limbs, conjuring her confidence and reiterating, in her mind, that she did nothing wrong. Her eyes travel to Clint’s face, taking in the exhaustion of his half-hearted smirk, an effect of a new child and little sleep. This man, just as the one at the river, has surprised her, a Blacksmith by trade who strongly refused her offer to read his fortune (something about being swindled by a fortune teller in his youth), yet invited her into his home the day she arrived, stoked a fire to dry her feet, fed her, and provided her unasked for guidance in attaining living arrangements. She is not beholden to anyone or anything, utterly alone in life, and yet, she cannot ignore the itch of despair at his disappointment, actually finds herself defending her actions in hopes he accepts the excuse. “I thought it would be different, she seemed accepting and-.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Yes.” Wanda glances despondently around the room. “It is not safe here anymore.”

The thing she respects the most about Clint is his inability to soften his words. “No, not right now.”

The confirmation is what she was seeking, mind shutting down any peripheral thoughts, instead only focusing on survival, what is next. Perhaps she offers her services to a caravan, leaves the reassuring oldness of the settlements to pursue the paradise of autonomy the fliers posted along the road describe existing in strange places with names like California, Oregon, and Utah. But she also wonders if a denser, more populated area might be better, return to New York City where she could disappears into the faceless, pulsing crowds again. Though she left the city precisely because she could not escape, no matter how crowded it got. “I am not sure where to go now.”

“I have a suggestion, if you want to actually listen to me this time.” Wanda glares at him, his honesty can be both refreshing and infuriating, particularly when he takes on a paternalistic air, the need for a parent in her life long since necessary. But instead of biting back, she waves her hand for him to continue. “I think we can salvage this,” a statement that creates a small, strange roiling in her chest, the implication being he doesn’t want her to leave. It is a foreign concept, someone wanting her to stay. “We just need to reinvent your image, you know?”

Wanda’s listless glare morphs into a wrinkled brow. “No...”

“I think it is pretty fair to say you have not managed your public image or reputation very well,” something she’d likely argue against any other day, but given her dress is creating a small pond of mud beneath her (and, much to her fury, all of her other clothing is lying in roughly torn strips on the floor) she’ll concede to his point at the present moment. “Take a break, find some place safe, start small, and then come back once they’ve calmed down.”

“Where am I supposed to find safety?”

Clint stands up, offering her his hand, which she takes, and he pulls her back onto her feet with a smile. “I’d offer my house, but,”

“Your family deserves to live unworried.”

He nods. “Precisely, but got a friend of a friend that owns an estate just north of here. Bit eccentric but from what I’ve been told he never refuses a guest with an interesting past.”

 

It is only as they approach the estate, it’s appearance masked by the thick, oppressively humid darkness, that Wanda second guesses the plan, is uncertain why she agreed to ask for lodging from a stranger and why she trusts Clint so much. There is a strong likelihood this will end the same as every other endeavor since her brother’s death, but the mellow flicker of gaslights lining the cobbled path to the estate is quite inviting, enough to vacate her concerns for one night of warmth and safety. Wanda clutches the small bag in her lap, containing the only remaining, mostly intact possessions that survived the violation of her room. “You are certain of this?”

Clint gives an unhelpful shrug and an even more unhelpful answer, as he never elaborates on who his friend is beyond telling Wanda that she is terrifying in the most admirable way possible, “Natasha claims this is a safe place, I believe her. Plus she said there is an incredible archery range so if you stay long enough I can probably use it.”

The reigns are tugged twice, and the horse comes to a standstill, an expectant whinny filling the air, urging Clint to swing down from the seat and offer a morsel of apple in appreciation. Wanda is not as eager to get down, suspicious eyes studying the brick facade and the curve of the railing lining the porch that disappears into the shadows cast by the gaslights affixed to the building. A deep breath in readies her, steadying her shaking hands and feet as she takes Clint’s proffered hand and steps down from the carriage. Together they approach the door, Clint gripping the large, brass ring and releasing it with glee, the door vibrating from the force of the knock.

“Promise you’ll be fine.”

“I hope you are corr-” The door opens and Wanda finds herself unable to complete the sentence, taking in the surprised stare of the man from the river, no longer in his three piece suit, having foregone the hat (revealing unsurprisingly well-tamed blonde hair) and the jacket leaving him only in a dark, silk vest and a white shirt that clearly started out pristinely pressed but has rumpled naturally from a long day.

The butler recovers first, turning his attention towards Clint, “Mr. Barton, Miss-”

“Maximoff.” Wanda intercedes, realizing they’ve never actually introduced themselves.

He nods at her, a softness forming in the way his lips curl up ever so slightly. “Maximoff. What may I do to assist you?”

“Smith’s a bit upset with his seance experience today.”

The butler’s knowing, “Yes,” is ignored by Clint, who carries on, explaining what happened to her room, acting as if the man didn’t say anything, but Wanda finds herself unable to ignore him, her body collecting the humidity from the air and channeling it deep within her cheeks at the way his eyes have not left her since she told him her name.

“Was wondering if you’d mind her staying here, let things settle down?”

There is less than a second of silence between the question and the slight, rigid bend at the waist of the blonde man, his voice stiff and formal as he bows with an, “Of course.” He straightens his body back to its full height and steps gracefully back from the doorway, “Miss Maximoff, you may stay as long as you desire. Please,” his kind, blue eyes find hers again and the heat from her cheeks rushes down her neck, filling her chest with gratitude, leaving no room for concerns at the present moment, “come in.”

Clint nudges her back, an expectant, annoyingly paternal glint to his eyes before he waves to her, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Wanda thinks she lifts her hand in farewell, but her attention is fixated on the man in front of her, watching his arms travel behind his back, lowering to an angle suitable to lace his fingers together, and his body develop a subdued yet nervous sway as he glances around the house, likely assessing what needs to be done with this new, hopefully not wholly unwelcome, guest. “Miss Maximoff?”

“Yes?”

Her words have an instant effect, the apprehension leaving his body as he assumes his prescribed role, pulling his shoulders up into a dignified tension as his fingers release from behind his back, arms coming to hang at his side. She discovers she rather prefers the prior, more nervous, more honest version of the man from moments before, particularly when he speaks, his voice now taking on an air of formality and depersonalization, a far cry from the bashful, playful dialogue earlier in the day. “Would you be amenable to my showing you to your room?”

“That would be amenable, thank you.”

A quick, well-trained nod meets her words as he begins to walk towards an impressive, mahogany framed staircase, pausing briefly before turning with an indecisive frown on his face. “I-” the indecision leaves as he squares his body again, and Wanda is enthralled at the flickering of his personality between butler and man. The butler, it seems, wins out, his left elbow bending, arm forming a reluctant triangle that he offers her. “May I offer assistance up the stairs?”

“No thank you, I,” Wanda desperately wants the man from the river back, attempts to flash a sly smile at him while she adds a touch of joviality to her voice to tempt him to loosen up, “believe I am fully capable of walking up stairs on my own, unless you need assistance.”

For a brief, fleeting moment, he allows the seriousness to slip from his face, a twitch overtaking the corner of his mouth that could be construed as merriment, but then he nods, washing away the vestige of humor. “I believe I am also quite capable of traversing stairs. Please, follow me.”

They walk in relative silence, though it is a silence she has not experienced, lacking the tension of fear that hovers at a seance and no sign of awkwardness or boredom that engulfs her when she is trapped with a stranger on a transport. No this is comfortable, soothing, undemanding and incredibly refreshing. Which is why she isn’t sure why she decides to obliterate the silence, but curiosity is always a strong temptation for a Maximoff. “Your,” she attempts to remember his vocabulary at the river, “employer will be okay with me staying here?”

“Oh, undoubtedly.” The lack of hesitation combined with the nonchalance of the answer is reassuring. “As I explained earlier, you were already welcome, this is not qualitatively different.”

“Thank you.”

He nods as he directs her towards an open door, the room instantly stealing all of her attention as her eyes travel along the majestic four-poster jet-black bed, gilded panels etched with ornate designs of leaves. Next to the bed is an equally macabre and lavish chaise lounge, the deep purple encasing the cushions tempting her to walk across the room and run her palm along the indulgent softness of the crushed velvet. “I hope this room is suitable.” Wanda has no words, dumbfounded at the luxury of the room, never having seen something like this even in the homes of the elite she visited (and was often unceremoniously tossed from) for seances. “There are dressing gowns in the wardrobe and you should find all necessities for this evening. I shall better prepare the room tomorrow. Sleep well and do not hesitate to ring the bell near the bed if you require assistance of any sort.”

It’s not until his last words and the slight creak of the heavy wooden door that Wanda, without thinking, throws out a scarlet thread to stop the door, tossing out a hurried, “Wait!”

The butler takes a hesitant step back into the room, an anticipatory set to his face as he waits for her request. “How may I help you, Miss Maximoff?”

Wanda walks to the door, neck craning to stare up at his face, studying his features as best she can in the dim lighting. “What’s your name?”  


“Oh, yes, my apologies.” The man clears his throat before continuing, a nervousness permeating the air around him that she finds somewhat unsettling, almost making her offer an apology as the question seems to have upset him. “You may simply call me Vision, it is what my employer and his guests refer to me as and so it is what I answer to if you find you need assistance.”

“Vision?”

“Correct,” the man steps away with a small, stiff bow. “Sleep well, Miss. Maximoff,” and then he disappears into the darkness of the surrounding hallway, leaving her alone.

Wanda finds the information infuriating, a seething rage forming in her limbs at the implication of his words, but she resolves to release it for the night, change into dry clothes, and perhaps tomorrow she will unravel the mystery of this man and figure out what comes next for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Skilamalink = shady  
> **Helen Jewett = a prostitute that was murdered in New York and the write-up of her murder became quite famous.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Kudos and comments always appreciated.


	2. In which company is sought and revelations are had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda settles into life at the manor while attempting to form a connection with the elusive butler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention last time, in case anyone is curious, this story takes place in 1853. 
> 
> Per usual, this ended up quite a bit longer than planned. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The house is extravagant, though not ostentatious, just the right amount of excess intermixed with a surprising level of sparseness. Wanda’s room is, so far on her self-guided tour, the one oozing with the most unadulterated flamboyance. The stairway leading down to the main floor is grand, intricate carvings of imps and angels battling for dominance, but the details are subtle from a distance, overpowered by the white, black, and gold checkered floor. Unlike most of the wealthy homes she has seen, this one lacks the clutter of furniture, lacks the requirement to constantly scan the immediate vicinity to ensure no shins are banged on tables or feet trip over upturned rugs. Each room (from the parlor, to the front hall, the bedrooms, and the four different sitting rooms) contains the barest amount of furniture to allow the space to feel content but not overstuffed. What she’d like to do is ask why this is the case, but her day, so far, has been solitary, though not truly alone.

Vision (the name still feels funny in her mouth) and the other servants are clearly in the house as well, their presence ephemeral yet palpable, traces of their existence left to guide her yet she has not actually seen anyone yet. It is infuriating. Wanda unfolds the carefully labeled map that was left on the table in the dining room (a table she is fairly certain has to be at least three times longer than she is tall) and studies the handwriting, turning the map and reorienting herself to her location in the house. According to the times written in each room on the map, there is supposed to be something (she is hoping for tea and cucumber sandwiches) on the back veranda in a quarter of an hour. The hope is that if she arrives early then perhaps she will encounter him.

As Wanda moves through the wood-paneled hallway, she can’t help but think about the elusive man. Even though she has never had any desire for a butler, as she is perfectly capable of providing for herself and cannot fathom any reason someone else should have to deal with the tediousness of life in her honor, it does not mean she isn’t inordinately impressed by the forethought shown by Vision. When she woke this morning, she opened her door to find not only a neatly folded pile of clothes (a note attached, which she picked up, studies briefly, and then placed back on the pile of clothing) and a steaming copper pitcher with a protective towel wrapped around the handle. Once she had washed up and gotten dressed (even the clothes provided were expensive, the lack of itchiness to the fabric quite refreshing though the dress was quite unique in its construction), she opened the door to find a cup of perfectly drinkable tea atop a dainty, ivory doily. In the dining room there was breakfast waiting for her, and the map. In each room along her journey there were refreshments and suggested activities: books with marks for ideal poetry to match the room, a deck of cards with a set of instructions perhaps for how to play a single player game, what appears to be a carefully constructed and itemized list of the artwork around the house, and a hearty turkey stew with a small yeast roll at lunchtime. Anything she could want was provided before she ever realized she needed it. Except company.

When she opens the stain-glass door to the veranda her mouth immediately curls into a proud grin, eyes drawn to the lanky form of the suit-clad butler. Wanda remains quiet, making sure to hold the handle down to close the door without an audible click, and cautiously approaches the small table set up on the whitewashed wooden deck. The man seems oblivious to her, bent over at the waist as his black-gloved hands shuffle a teapot and plate of sandwiches around on the table, clearly unsatisfied with the positioning of them. Eventually he allows a minuscule shrug of his shoulders before straightening out his spine, briefly pausing to stare beyond the rail of the veranda. Wanda almost allows her curiosity free rein of her body, almost allows her gaze to follow his, but she fights it, worried if she loses focus then he will disappear again. So instead she takes several hurried, albeit quiet, steps forward until she is close enough that she could reach out and tap his shoulder. “Vision?”

No one could describe his response as jumpy since there is no easily discernible flinch of his muscles or flailing of his arms, but his shoulders do stand just a bit taller, arms just a touch more rigid than before. Wanda grins wider at the victory. “Miss,” he turns around, slow and purposeful, every motion of his body from the rotation of his shoulders to the slight swing of his fingers tightly controlled, voice even yet pleasant as he turns the corners of his mouth up into a serviceable smile, “Maximoff. You are ahead of schedule.”

“I’m not too fond of a structured life.”

The smile flinches from serviceable to genuine before settling back to neutrality. “I see. My apologies for attempting to constrain your freedom of time.” He steps around her, hands gripping the back of the chair as he pulls it out with a slight bow, “Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Wanda sits, hands folding in her lap as she flashes an appreciative smile in his direction, one that he returns while pouring her a cup of tea. Once he has filled her cup he performs another servile bow before turning to leave. Given the solitude of her day, and her enkindled curiosity, the brevity of the interaction is not acceptable. “Would you like to join me?”

Vision hesitates, eyes torn between studying her face, likely attempting to ascertain the seriousness of the request, and the doorway leading back into the manor. The freshly polished tips of his shoes point towards the door, his heel lifting off the ground in preparation to leave, but then his shoulders dip slightly before he pivots on his other heel and joins her at the table, proffering a polite and logical acquiescence to her request. “Since you arrived ahead of your scheduled tea time, I too am slightly ahead of schedule.” His gloved hand rests on the table, fingers tapping a silent melody, the only movement he seems to allow his body. “Have the accommodations been suitable for your needs?”

“Yes, incredibly suitable.”

“Excellent.”

The silence is not nearly as comfortable as the night before, an anxiousness bubbling in the air between them as she cycles through all the possible topics of conversation. Despite thinking about talking to him all day, she finds her tongue deserting her and going dry with indecision. Wanda carefully takes a sip of tea, hoping to whet her verbal skills and grasp one of the many comments whirling through her mind. She determines to start with the most baffling observance of the day. “Where is everyone else? I haven’t seen anyone all day.” 

“Oh,” the question seems to fluster him, fingers tapping more fervently before ceasing to move altogether, his other hand rising to emphasize his words. “There is no one else, at the moment.”

Wanda finds the information incomprehensible, the tasks far too numerous and done with such precision as to be inhuman for one man to accomplish half a day. “That is enough to make a stuffed bird laugh*.”

“I assure you that it is only you and I. Other than Mr. Barton’s intentions to visit for supper, no one else is expected for another couple of days.”

The claim is audacious. She has spent her entire day exploring the manor, and though it is a spacious and dizzying labyrinth of a structure, it is inconceivable for him to have always been three steps ahead. “How have I not seen you then?” Wanda leans closer to him, a conspiratorial finger leveled at his chest, “Can you walk through walls?”

This receives a breathy, perfectly executed laugh. “I never considered the possibility of such an ability. Sadly,” Wanda is mesmerized at the way his persona shifts, still distant, but moving from a cool, detached aloofness to one brimming with warmth and congeniality, “I have not acquired the capability to walk through walls, which is quite unfortunate as it would save me approximately…” he tilts his head in contemplation, eyes focusing on the wispy clouds lazily crawling along the cerulean sky. “I would say two hours each day if I did not have to traverse the hallways.“

“Well if you cannot walk through walls, what is your secret?” Wanda considers not including the next comment, but the notion that she may not be alone, that she has, perhaps, found a kindred spirit convinces her to toss out a waggish** (but utterly hopeful), “Can you read minds?”

He breathes in, lips turning up slightly at the playfulness in her voice, a response she intends to pull from him each time they talk as she finds it exhilarating. “That too would be an incredibly appealing prospect. No, a butler, according to Robert Roberts, is supposed to be unobtrusive and discreet, it is my job to anticipate not only your needs but also your actions and whereabouts so that I can provide for you while remaining out of sight.”

The explanation is disappointing in its commonness, but she brushes off her dismay, replacing it with a cutting smile and pointed look. “I will interpret that to mean you spend a lot of your time hiding behind corners and doors.”

Another laugh escapes his lungs, this one loose and unexpected, louder than his last one and far more authentic. “That is a fair interpretation, though the most parsimonious explanation would be my use service passages.” His hand leaves the table, dipping into his coat and removing his pocket watch. “I do apologize but I must check on the laundry.”

Wanda watches him stand, feels her heart tumble from her chest all the way to the pit of her stomach at the notion of losing his presence, a troubling realization that she determines to scrutinize later, and finds words racing out of her mouth without contemplating exactly what she might be willingly agreeing to do.  “Can I help you?”

“You are a guest.”

The tone clearly conveys that this piece of information is enough to keep her in her seat, but Wanda has never been one to adhere to social rules, and so she stands, placing her hands resolutely on her hips as she levels a challenging gaze in his direction. The simple fact of her defiance to rules, however, does not mean she cannot use them to her advantage. “Would Mr. Roberts condone the notion of denying a guest’s request?”

Vision narrows his eyes, hands lifting in the air while he prepares to counter back, use logic and manners to insist she not join him. But then his hand stops moving, a smile threatening to break the serious line of his lips, and he glances down, bringing his hands together in a thoughtful clasp. He is almost successful at vanquishing the effects of her well-played manipulation, features solemn minus a twinkle of delight in his eyes. “My apologies for acting contrary to your wishes, Miss Maximoff. Though I do not require nor insist on aid, you are welcome to shadow me, if that is a sufficient compromise to your request.”

“It is.”

A slight bow of his head obscures his face long enough for him to reset to his emotionless baseline, his voice posh and steady as he says, “Then please, follow me.”  

The journey is mostly silent as he leads her through several hallways, occasional comments are tossed over his shoulder informing her of the history of the woodwork or the means by which the artwork was acquired. Eventually they stop in front of a bookcase and he reaches out to select a pristinely kept edition of _The_ _Count of Monte Cristo_. “Since you inquired as to my furtiveness…” the book only partially strays from the shelf, clicking back in place as a low groan shakes the surrounding books and the shelves open into a passageway.

“That’s dramatic.” 

A slight, proud arc forms on his mouth as he nods in agreement. “It is perhaps the fourth least dramatic one.”

Wanda glances at him, assuming he is joking but the sincerity in his voice matches the earnestness of his face. “Fascinating.”

She follows close behind him, somewhat disappointed that the passageway is dim and undecorated, a stark contrast to the extravagance of its entrance. But this disappointed flees at the wonderment (and a negligible trace of trepidation) that overtakes her mind when they enter the back hall, the space filled with steam and the echo of metal churning relentlessly from an enormous contraption. “This,” Vision raises his voice slightly, compensating for the whine and whistle of the pistons. “Is,” he leaves her side to grip a long metal rod, expanding the width between his feet as he bends his knees, bracing himself to pull the metal tube towards him. Suddenly the commotion stops, the last of the rattling vibrations dissipating until the air is calm though oppressively wet. “Friday.”

“Friday?” 

“Yes,” four long strides bring him to her side, a small hand towel grasped in his fingers that he uses to wipe down the leather palms of his gloves. “The first successful completion of a laundry cycle using the machine was completed on a Friday, hence the name.” 

Wanda gives a distracted _hmm_ , feet carrying her closer to the machine, eyes taking in the ten wide wheels laced with a tough fabric, the grated panels of the conveyer belt and how it dips into a vat of water over which hangs fist sized balls of metal attached to thick metal rods. “It is quite impressive,” the butler joins her, the facade of disinterest fading as he excitedly explains the process using words she cannot comprehend like _hydraulics_ and _reciprocating engine_ , but what she’s drawn to the most, and what, besides the stifling humidity in the room, is the likely culprit for the heat budding in her cheeks, is the passion in his hands as he mirrors the movement of the machine to better help her understand the workings.

Nothing quite measures up to Friday for the duration of her shadowing, moving from the machine to the kitchen to throw vegetables into a pot for supper, then on to the stables where they feed the horses and Wanda watches in fascination at the way the water pump is set up to ensure Vision does not sully his suit. The walk back to the manor from the stables is her favorite part, a peaceful stroll against the backdrop of rolling, green mountains, the man next to her quiet, yet conversational beyond what she assumes his holy book of butlering would allow. Yet his conversation depends on one small aggravation - she must always choose the topic. If she remains silent, so does he, but if she asks him a question or makes a trailing comment, then, and only then, will he respond. It is as he is finishing informing her on the intricacies of collecting eggs each morning without the (his voice becomes quite distant and laced with disdain) bricky*** beasts pecking apart the threads of his pants, that Wanda attempts to formulate the next topic, eager to keep him speaking. Her mind fixates on the gentle lilt of his accent, particularly in its purity as compared to butchered and harsher cadence she is more likely to hear in every tavern in every town since coming to this country. “Are you originally from England?”

The inquiry surprises him, blonde eyebrows raising as disbelief creates lines around his slightly agape mouth. “Yes, London, though technically-.” His lips remain parted, hands toying with the idea of lifting to add more information, but then he shuts his mouth, glances towards the mountains, and once he turns his attention towards her again she senses that he has realigned his train of thought to what might be a more acceptable follow-up, an assumption that stokes her curiosity and almost convinces her to reach for his mind. “I consider myself quite skilled at placing accents, and yet, I find myself uncertain as to your nation of origin beyond simply belonging to the Russian Empire.”

“You are close, Austrian Empire.” She redirects her attention away from the intensity of his anticipatory gaze and stares at the rings adorning her fingers. Thoughts of her home country and the memories of a lost life are typically kept locked within her subconscious. It is easier that way. A deep breath ensures she only pulls out the barest, most necessary information to answer the question before shuttering the opening from further disturbances. “Sokovia. Novi Grad, specifically.” Her next question is fueled by the comfort of his presence and her distaste for his name. “So, was your name Vision on the ship list?”

The man almost stops walking, fingers curling into fists at his side and she worries that the question is a step too far given the paucity of their interactions. But whatever ire manifested is dissolved by a tiny smirk and a shake of his head. “It was not, though, quite unfortunately for,” he sends a deliberate, and what she might almost describe as mischievous, look in her direction, “curious minds, such records are currently not made public.”

“That is quite unfortunate,” her voice shifts from jocular to serious, recalling the protests recently about the sharing of ship lists, ”though perhaps for the best given the Nativists****.” Vision nods, a grim line forming on his lips, even out here, in such an isolated spot, clearly aware of the smatterings of rumors spreading about a planned increase in regulating immigration, which for some would simply be deportation. 

“Indeed.”

Clint is waiting for her when they arrive back at the manor and as soon as Wanda greets him, Vision vanishes. His presence is still keenly felt but only as a wraith. This, Wanda determines, is more distracting than if the man stood in the corner waiting on them, because she cannot seem to concentrate on Clint’s questions and stories, her mind wandering continuously back to the butler as an unmistakable itch of curiosity to unravel the enigma of his being takes root in her mind.

 

 

 

The next day Wanda resolves to take action.

Upon waking she opens her door, unsurprised to find another pile of clothing (this one with her own sole surviving, freshly cleaned and mended outfit on top) and a steaming copper pitcher. For this step of her plan, Wanda plays along, scooping the clothes into her arm and carefully lifting the pitcher, balancing the bottom against her hip as she closes the door. A tendril of scarlet wraps around the pitcher, removing it from her hand and carrying it to the wash basin, while a second, smaller strand exits the door, feeling the hallway for any buzz of thoughts that might approach. Wanda unties her dressing gown, allowing it to fall to the floor along with the pile of dresses, smiling as she slips on her familiar, though somewhat itchy, patchwork skirt and blouse. Her hands work without thought, twisting her hair up into a loose, swooping knot, held together with pins. Moments later she can sense orderly thoughts, each marching in a line, ticking off the various tasks for the day, the current image at the front of the mind a tea cup and a doily. When the mind stops in front of her door, Wanda allows a wicked smile to part her lips as she yanks on the handle. “Good morning.”

Credit must be given to the fact he does not drop the tea cup or the doily, in fact, the only sign of his complete surprise is the painfully slow blink of his brilliant blue eyes and the longer than polite pause between her greeting and his, “Good morning, Miss Maximoff.” The tea cup is brought to rest between them, “Tea?”

“Thank you.”  The porcelain cup passes into her hand, fingers curling around the welcome heat as she smiles innocently up at him. “Hypothetically, what would happen if you, through the quite voluntary and eagerly offered help of another person, managed to complete all of your chores earlier than scheduled?”

If the door opening unexpectedly shocked him, this question appears to decimate his understanding of the world, eyes darting away from her face as his feet shuffle in discomfort. It is endearing in the same way as watching a shy kitten approach a foreign ball of yarn, all she needs now is for him to pounce. Each syllable is elongated as he forms his thoughts. “Hypothetically,” he pauses, eyes sliding to the side before snapping back to her face, “if I allowed such an offer, despite the blatant disregard it would have for the comfort of my guest’s well-being, then I would be able to fill that time with whatever activity or task is deemed most appealing.” 

Wanda beams up at him as she sips her tea, “Such as that peculiar game you pointed out on the lawn yesterday?” It had been on their way to feed the fish in the pond, iron hoops rising out of the ground in a haphazard fashion as one of the ugliest gardens Wanda had ever seen.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff, pale-maille*****certainly is always an appealing option.”

“Excellent.”

His, “excellent,” is not nearly as enthusiastic but he doesn’t verbalize his disdain at her request.

They start with the candlesticks, Vision reluctantly setting a bowl of sudsy water between them as he grips a piece of felt in his hands, which are adorned not with his typical leather gloves, but instead with thicker hydrophobic fabric. “Simply dip the felt in the water and clean in a clockwise pattern to expurgate the filth. Do not,” his voice drops an octave as he tilts the candlestick in his hand to show her a green fabric base, “get the baize wet, it will spoil the material and require mending.”

Wanda inspects the materials in front of them, “Understood.”

Once the candlesticks are done she watches him demonstrate the quick, small movements required to polish the mahogany serving trays, yet her eyes keep trailing away from the demonstration to instead linger on the angles of his face and the adorable squint of concentration when he works.  After the trays they move on to the silverware, which Wanda finds increasingly bizarre, particularly when he instructs her to stab the forks repeatedly into wet sand, explaining, with a twinge of defensiveness in the face of her disbelief, “Mr. Roberts swears by this technique and it has never failed me.” 

They clean the plates, the decanters, the tea pots, and the cruets; refill the lanterns (“You are quite fortunate I cleaned those several days ago, the process is quite unpleasant and one I would not subject you to regardless of your desire to help”); and polish the steel grates in each hallway. Vision completes his portion of each task much quicker than her, the precision, efficiency, and uniformity of his movements stupefying. At the moment his pile of brushed blankets is at least three times higher than hers and she finds her mind crafting an amusing image that she believes he’d enjoy as well. “Vision?”

His hand does not stop its circular motion as he cocks his head to indicate she has his attention, “Yes, Miss Maximoff?”

“Are you, by any chance, related to Friday?”

The assumption is that he will, with a fine-tuned deadpan, respond with a playfully logical explanation, as he has for all her other comments, but instead he drops the blanket to the ground, an almost imperceptible tremble to his hand as he picks the item back up. The brush hovers in the air, horsehair bristles hooking into the fibers just enough keep the blanket steady, and his face pales as he swallows. “Pardon me, Miss Maximoff.” The blanket is delicately placed on the pile, the brush next to it as he stands, eyes never quite returning to her face. “I somehow forgot I need to run to town. I shall be sure to expedite my errands so that we can maximize the three-quarters of an hour your aid has made available for me to teach you pale-maille.” With an unusual abruptness he is gone, leaving Wanda to stew in confusion, the strokes of the brush in her hand half-hearted and likely ineffective at removing the grime from the blankets.

 

 

 

With no tasks to complete and not another living soul around, Wanda wanders the hallways, fingers brushing the walls and toying with every sconce, frame, and book she touches in hopes of discovering more secrets of the manor, yet nothing happens. Slowly her feet bring her to the veranda, heart dropping at the absence of a teapot. Wanda sits, taking in the expanse of green grass that climbs slowly up into distant, tree blanketed mountains, mind churning through their last interaction, attempting to determine why he seemed so disconcerted by her question. When the click of footfalls sound behind her, Wanda stands, ready to apologize as she turns but freezes at the sight of a red-haired, well-dressed woman. “Who are you?” 

The woman tilts her head, her lips following suit into a half-smile that gives the impression of a recently sharpened dagger. “I believe that is a question more suitable for me to ask. So who are you?”

Scarlet courses through Wanda’s veins at the threat in the woman’s voice, a readiness forming in her hands and feet to attack or flee, depending on whatever happens next. “I am Wanda Maximoff.”

The smile dulls, now matching what might be flashed to the only other stranger on the road for the day, a look that is congenial enough but does not offer an invitation for further contact. “Clint tells me you are a spiritualist.”

“Clint?” 

“Yes, Barton.” It is not until the woman sits down that Wanda even processes how quickly she traveled across the veranda. Slowly Wanda shifts one chair over and sits as well, palms pressed firmly against her thighs to hide the shimmer of red pulsing in unison with the erratic drumming of her heart. “I’m Natasha Romanov.”

A hand is held aloft between them. Wanda eyes the black glove adorning the hand, noting it is expensive yet practical, a elegance in the way the fabric stretches along the fingers but there is also a surety in the seams that this is a hand to be grasped with precaution. Wanda tightens her fingers into a fist to dispel the last of the scarlet before unfurling her fingers and gripping the gloved hand long enough to say, “Pleasure.” 

“Sorry for surprising you,” there is no apology in the tone, “but it is not often a spiritualist has an actual reputation for talking to the dead.”

Wanda calculates all the possible responses, an uneasiness pricking at the back of her neck, the same uneasiness she feels when a swim in the river is impending. “For such a reputation, you would think people would not respond so poorly.”

The rise and fall of Natasha’s shoulders is almost as dangerous as her smile, an indifference so palpable Wanda has to fight against allowing it to reduce her own opinion of herself. “It is not surprising, people rarely want what they say.” When Wanda met the Fox Sisters she knew instantly they were cons, yet there was still power in their presence, in their words and their falsehoods. The same power exudes from the woman next to her. “So, Wanda Maximoff, what is it that you want from staying here?”

“Simply a safe place while I decide where to go next.”

“Have you found that here?”

Wanda considers the question for only a moment before reaching a conclusion. “Yes, Vision has been more than accommodating.”

A meaningful, “Hmm,” vibrates in the woman’s throat, but her next thoughts are silenced by a thudding of feet and the tap of wood behind them. Their heads turn to take in the shifting gaze of the butler as he stands halfway on the deck holding a wooden mallet in each hand. “Hello, Vision.”

His gaze finally comes to a halt, eyes falling on the red-haired woman as he takes the final six steps to stand a respectable distance from the table. “Miss Romanov, I was not expecting you.”

“Have I ever shown up when expected?”

The pause is the perfect length to be polite as to show consideration of the question, but short enough to imply the answer was already known and that he is playing along with her wishes. “Not once, Miss Romanov.”

Wanda decides to alleviate the tension in the air, shaking the last of her nerves from her fingers as she indicates the mallets in his hands. “Are those for pale-maille?”

The man lifts the mallets up, inspecting them with an odd detachment as if he had forgotten they were in his hands. “Oh, yes, they are, Miss Maximoff.” The mallets lower down to his side, the movement seeming to draw his lips in a similar downward arc. “Unfortunately, I believe I need to prepare Miss Romanov her coffee,” Natasha opens her mouth to talk, but is quieted by a nod of Vision’s head, “with a splash of vodka.”

“Perfect.”

“My apologies, Miss Maximoff, I shall endeavor to allot more time tomorrow, if you wish.”

He does not wait for her response before he disappears through the stained-glass door, a subtle and incisive clearing of a throat requiring her attention. “Pale-maille?” Natasha touches the tips of her fingers conspiratorially to Wanda’s wrist. “With the butler?”

Immediately her voice becomes defensive, unappreciative of the scandal in the woman’s voice. “Yes, I helped him earlier today so he would have time to show me.”

The thing is, Wanda has, quite unfortunately, discovered that her words usually incite more scandal than they dispel, Natasha sitting up straighter with a keen smirk. “That man barely allows guests to lift their own cup.” An amused huff follows the sentence, hanging in the air as she stands from her seat. “Will you please pass my apologies on to Vision, I forgot I promised Clint my company.” Natasha does not wink but the expression on her face, once the memory of the day fades and distorts, will no doubt be recalled as a wink.  “May you find your safe place here, Wanda.”

 

 

As evening falls, Wanda finds herself alone again, Vision far more removed and distant after the discovery of his improprietous decision to potentially socialize with a guest. She’s embarrassed at the anticipatory hope that tightens her chest each time she approaches a corner or door, but none are hiding the butler. There is, once she retires for the night, a cup of hot chocolate on the desk of her room, a billowing stream of steam confirms the recency of its delivery.  Cautiously she curves her palms around the porcelain cup, breathing in the sweetness, her fingers flinching slightly at the heated ceramic against her skin. If this is still hot it means he is likely awake. 

The times on the map from the day before stopped at bedtime, no indications given as to where or when she might be able to show up to intersect with his own schedule. Which means she has to resort to other methods. Hesitantly Wanda extends her index finger, eyes closing in concentration as a mist of scarlet releases into the air, sending out a beacon for other minds, the energy spreading and then rebounding back with information. A smile crawls along her lips when she locates the stir of thoughts. Cup still in hand, she allows her body to follow the murmur of his mind, engrossed by the neat and orderly nature of his thoughts, each one following at even intervals before disappearing into different sections of his mind. It is not until muggy air engulfs her body that she opens her eyes, finds that she is on a smaller, more enclosed balcony, not nearly as impressive as the veranda.

Vision is there, just as she suspected based on the mental link, though the details are difficult to parse out, the gaslamp on the table illuminates enough of the balcony for her to study the general appearance of him from a distance. It is evident he is not anticipating her company, his jacket and waistcoat gone, leaving him only in a slightly wrinkled shirt and black pants. He is reclined in a chair, feet resting on a wicker footstool and Wanda is enamored with how relaxed he appears, his hands working in methodical patterns to clean whatever is gripped between his fingers, a slight gleam from the gaslamp makes her think he is polishing metal of some kind. There is a war waging in her body, her heart yearning to call out his name, sit in the empty chair next to him, to bask in the honeyed tone of his voice, but her mind quickly points out all of the cues that he would not welcome company. A man of order, one who favors a pristine and ambivalent appearance, might not appreciate a surprise attack when he is at his least controlled, particularly after the embarrassment on the veranda.

Yet somehow, with his preternatural butler abilities, he senses her before she has a chance to back away. “Miss Maximoff, is something the matter?” The concern is evident in his voice, but more so in the quickness of the motion from sitting to standing, the casualness of his attire contrasting the seriousness pulling his lips into a frown.

Wanda shakes her head, though his frown remains, whether it is because he is unable to accept her answer or because it is clear now that she has simply decided to intrude upon his evening. “I,” at one point in her life, Wanda truly believed in honesty and forthrightness, but for the sake of survival she has become accustomed to providing legitimate, albeit false, reasons for her actions. What she should proclaim right now is that, since his presence rescinded for the day, she has only been able to think about his company, cannot explain why she wishes to delve into his thoughts, feel his soul, discover who this man is, but her instincts prohibit such a confession. “I could not sleep.”

The dull light of the gaslamp emphasizes the softening of his features, the frown retracting, replaced with an understanding nod. “It cannot be easy adjusting to a new accommodation, particularly given the circumstances.” 

“No, it is not.”

A sympathetic tilt forms on his mouth, “If there is any assistance I can offer, please do not hesitate to inform me.” 

This friendly but strained back and forth is exhausting, and Wanda can’t seem to temper her impatience and annoyance with the requirement, based on the recommendations of some other butler who happened to write a book, that she must initiate all conversations beyond offers of help.   “Are you ever not a butler?”

“I-” shadows form on his face as he shifts his feet, brows furrowing and casting his features with a mask of indecision, “am not certain that is possible, given the nature of my employment.”

“So you are saying you are no longer a man? Only a butler?” Her mind instantly goes back to the veranda and the discussion of wants and how Wanda seemingly can never parse out the true wants of her clients. Perhaps she has misread this man as well, maybe his kindness is simply due to the code of the butler and nothing more. A possibility that renders her lungs unable to function at their full capacity. “You have no wants other than to serve?” 

The oppressive silence coils her stomach into uncomfortable knots and Wanda turns to leave, deciding this is her last night in the manor, unwilling to deal with the dehumanization of servitude and the possibility that any gentleness from this man was simply part of his job. She’d rather wander the countryside for the next town then accept that notion. “Miss Maximoff?”

Her fingernails dig into the palm of her hand as she turns around with an exasperated, “What?”

He takes a step around the chair, body falling into the light of the lamp, revealing that the cuffs of his shirt are unexpectedly rolled up twice and that his hands are bare. It is the first part of his skin she has spied beyond his face and there is a humanizing quality to it, until he follows her gaze and hurriedly shoves his hands into his pockets. “I want,” uncertainty mars his forehead, bunching the skin in erratic patterns, and his eyes fall to the ground. Then he raises his head and a sheepish lift of his shoulders produces a funny, fluttering feeling in her heart, “I would very much fancy your company, if you are not opposed to such a tête-à-tête.”

The tightness unravels as her eyes revolve before she can stop them, almost as defiant as the grin that forms instantaneously on her face and the zealousness of her, “Not opposed.” 

An uncharacteristically free smile dances across his face, though she wonders, briefly, if it is simply a trick of the lighting. He waves a hand at the other chair, remains standing as he waits for her to sit down, to twist and shimmy into the chair until she is comfortable, and then he returns to his prior position, but this time his feet don’t dare go too casual and thus remain on the ground. “Miss Maximoff-” 

“You don’t need to formally address me every time you say something.”

The man nods, lips tight as he processes the information. “I understand, thank you. Did you enjoy your time with Miss Romanov?”

The conversation from earlier replays in her mind, it was not terribly different from speaking with Vision in that both he and Natasha guard their words carefully. But where they do diverge is in the general demeanor and air, Vision polite and caring while it felt as if Natasha was interrogating her. “It was not unpleasant, though quite unusual.” One of the many thoughts that has remained with her since meeting the woman is a curiosity, perhaps more of an inkling to make a connection. “The dress from yesterday-”

“Yes, Miss-” he cuts himself off before he finishes her name, an impressive display of his attempt to remove the influence of being a butler for the sake of the moment, though she is still not certain if it is truly him or simply him following her order. “Yes?”

“Was that dress Natasha’s?”

A quick “Yes,” confirms her suspicions.

“Does she always keep a dagger in her bodice?” It was a surprising discovery when she first put on the dress, but, for some reason, it never seemed the correct time to inquire about the weapon.

Vision glances at her without moving his body, the lack of surprise on his face far more amusing, she finds, than if the comment had rattled him. “Yes,” his voice grows distant, eyes traveling to stare into the darkness over the railing, “the few times she has forgotten to remove all of her armaments from her clothing has caused severe malfunctions in Friday.”

The plurality of the admission does not go unnoticed and Wanda recalls the confusion, in addition to the confounding discovery of the dagger, at the five holsters she found in the dress along with several slits in the fabric to increase the ease of accessing the holsters and the numerous hidden pockets that presumably hold dangerous objects. “Why does she require an arsenal?”

“Miss Romanov is involved with,” his mouth shuts, lips clasped in a thin line as he contemplates the next words, “covert political operations between the Russian Empire and the United States.”

“Are you implying she’s a spy?”

A shrug and a nervous puff of air is answer enough, but he still verbalizes it as well, just to be clear. “That is the implication, though I cannot speak to the directionality of her allegiance nor do I believe it is in the favor of my livelihood to inquire.” Wanda releases an amused snort, the glimpse of pride in his eyes clear even in the dim lighting. Silence descends around them, but tonight, she vows, if he wishes to converse, then he must direct the flow of topics. Thankfully, it does not take long for a tentative, “Miss Maximoff?”

Both his habit of inquiring if he can make an inquiry and using her name are still strong, but Wanda decides to let this one escape a retort, instead angling to throw him off in another way. “You may call me Wanda, if you” the confidence she had going into the comment dissipates almost immediately, getting caught in the humid breeze that stirs the air around her. So she finishes her thought on a weakened, anxious, “like.”

“Wanda.” He tests her name slowly, holding out the _Wan_ and overemphasizing the duh in the second syllable, but he does so with an awed, almost boyish exuberance. The second, “Wanda,” returns to the cadence and tone of his _Miss Maximoff_ , “I have been reading many works concerning the spiritualist movement.”  He pauses as if what he has just said is a question, but Wanda isn’t sure what he is expecting, and so she waits, eyes glancing away from him briefly to try to identify the location of a distant boom of thunder. The hesitant but rich inflection of his words draws her attention back to him. “I am aware of your proclivity for séances,” the _and ending up in a river_ is left unspoken but hovers quite clearly in the air, “but was curious if you offer other readings in line with the spiritualist movement.”

“I occasionally do tarot readings, though,” the image of her wrecked quarters and the torn up and charred cards immediately flashes through her mind, “my tarot deck was ruined with the rest of my belongings.”

A flash of anger crosses his face, lips drooping into a scowl before lifting just enough to erase the brief ire. “Unacceptable.”

Wanda nods, agreeing with his assessment but aware nothing can be done at this point. “I used to also have a small table set up for palm reading outside of Castle Garden.” The location was ideal, particularly on days when there was a play or performance, the giddiness of rich socialites to learn of their impending love lives provided her with a lot of food and decent housing while she lived in the city, even if she does not particularly believe in the method. But, as with all good things, it ended abruptly and not in her favor the day she was visited by a man in a bowler hat. Wanda shakes the memory, narrowing her eyes as a dangerously appealing idea forms in her head. “Would you like your palm read? You were gracious enough to show me your trade today, I would enjoy the chance to repay the favor.” 

Predictably the offer is met with resistance, his body seizing up just enough to be noticeable and his eyes bouncing to every object and item except her. “Oh, I do not think that is necessary.”

“Why? Are you scared?”

He hesitates and the fear is palpable, though it does not have its intended consequence of quelling her curiosity, instead stoking the fire of her interest. “No,” with a single word she knows he is a terrible liar because she does not even have to reach out and brush his mind to know the truth. “I personally view, with no offense meant to you or your livelihood, the spiritualist movement as pure balderdash.” 

Typically, offense would be felt at such a statement, but the fact he was willing to say it directly to her is proof that she is interacting with Vision as a person and not a butler, and she determines to ensnare this side of him for a bit longer. “Have you ever had your palm read?”

“No.”

A deceptively innocent grin forms on her face, “Well how can you make such a claim if you have never determined the veracity of the technique?”

He freezes, lips parted slightly in contemplation while his eyes focus on a point just above her shoulder and she can almost imagine tiny gears clicking in his eyes as he attempts to counter her claim. “I suppose it is empirically impossible to support my claim without evidence.” The words come out slowly, a pause inserted at every third word.

Wanda smiles, lifting her arm so that her hand hovers between them, palm up, “I am glad you have seen reason, may I?”

The disconcerting gaze moves from just above her shoulder to her palm, his own hands delving deeper into his pockets as she stares at him. “It is quite late.”

“It will not take long.”

“You are a-”

Wanda glares at him, flexing her fingers in an attempt to encourage his compliance, “If you attempt to rationalize your refusal on the basis of me being a guest in this house then I will turn it right back on you and insist, as a guest, that you comply. But,” the glare softens as she offers him a smirk, “I would much prefer to avoid such awkwardness.”

Momentarily the fear leaves his face, replaced by a gleam of fascination that almost derails her plans. Thankfully, his voice breaks the spell, “My hands…”

It is undeniable, based on her experience so far with him, that his job requires a great deal of work with his hands, some of the liquids corrosive, and so she assumes he is going to attempt to argue that she should not have to touch such hands. “The only way that sentence can end with my agreement is if you inform me you are actually an avian beast with talons for hands. Because then,” she sends him another smile, “you would have no palm to read.”  Vision remains silent, eyes boring into her own, creases of deep contemplation forming on his face and her heart drops at the fear on his face, concerned she is pushing him too far. “But if you truly do not want it, that is fine too.”

He holds her gaze for a small eternity before he sighs and a spike of exuberance bursts from her stomach as she watches him remove his hand from his pocket. Haltingly he moves it to her own hand and whispers an apologetic, “I am not sure you will be able to read it,” that does not make sense until she touches him, notices a subtle texture to his skin that she has not felt before. Wanda reaches out to turn the knob of the lamp, increasing the light, and hates herself for gasping when she takes in the deep, wrinkled red scarring of his skin. Immediately he pulls his hand back, but she lunges forward enough to grab it and gently guide it back to the area between them. Her fingers lightly brush along his skin, trying desperately to assure him that it does not bother her.

“What happened?”

His face becomes stoic, closed off, and the action constricts her heart, a deep, aching pain forming in her chest as he simply states, “An unfortunate event in my past.”

Nothing else is added nor is there any sign that he wishes to divulge more and so Wanda brings his hand closer to her face. “Please let me know if you are ever uncomfortable.”

“Of course.”

The order in which the major lines are assessed varies based on the reader, or so Wanda determined when she bounced from tent to tent back in Sokovia as she learned the art of palmistry. Typically, she begins with whatever the person is least interested in learning, understanding that you must keep them invested in order to receive the full payment. But, since he isn’t exactly a client, she determines to move from least interesting to her to most, hoping to ease him into the reading, make him feel more comfortable, since currently the muscles in his hand are taut and trembling. “You can relax your hand, it increases the accuracy of the reading.” A quirked eyebrow meets her words, his disbelief in the reading presenting an exhilarating challenge more so than an annoyance. His hand does relax slightly, and she brings her index finger to his palm, placing the tip of her nail between his thumb and index finger.  Gently she traces the indents in his skin, searching for the head line and doing her best not to smile at the twitch in his fingers with each pass over his skin. “I am inspecting your head line.” 

“What does that tell you?”

This time her smile breaks loose, eyebrows raising as she meets his gaze, “Patience, Vision.” Slowly she follows the line, noting how it does not curve even as it traverses almost his entire palm. “It is straight, which implies you approach life with logic and practicality, that you are meticulous.”

“How can I determine that is due to the line and not your observance of my meticulousness the past two days.”

Wanda glances up at him, expecting to find a defiant seriousness in his brow, but instead his features are relaxed, amused, and oddly intrigued. “I suppose you cannot know for sure.”

A triumphant arc forms on the right side of his mouth. “That is unfortunate.”

She ignores his boastfulness, angling her face down to hide her smirk. “Your line is also long, stretching from one side to the other which means you are a more methodical thinker, not terribly impulsive.” Her finger swipes across the line two more times, exerting a slight pressure as she examines the depth of the line. “You also have a good memory as your line is deep.”

“So far you are correct, but,” a slight shrug and another smile from the man spurs a warmth to grow in the pit of her stomach, “I am not convinced.”

“Would you be willing to save your judgment until the end?”

His other hand escapes his pocket long enough to wave her on, “Of course.”

Wanda is torn which line to assess next, an unusual trepidation associated with either one. Her finger hovers above his hand before dropping down just below his fingers. “The heart line,” her own heart is racing, much to her annoyance, as her finger brushes his hand, attempting to locate the beginning of the line, a smile forming on her face once she finds it, which is odd given her own qualms with this methodology. “Your heart line begins here,” her finger presses just under his index finger, “that implies you are quite selective in choosing your romantic partners, but that once you select a partner, it is a satisfying relationship.” Wanda’s eyes turn up, glancing at him to assess his response, which is a barely decipherable _hmm_ and a tension in his face as he deliberately does not glance at her.  Her finger follows the line, noting the way it branches, one part traveling down and the other curving up towards his ring finger. “It branches.”

“What does that mean?”

Finally, he looks at her but whatever is going through his mind is unreadable based on merely looking, her own mind itching to connect with his to determine his thoughts. Yet, for some reason, she feels as if now is not an acceptable time that, in fact, the thought of entering his mind again without asking would be an unspeakable act. “It means you are quite skilled at balancing your logic and emotions, you are not driven exclusively by emotions nor do you wear them on your sleeve.” The line is also deep, a fact she intends to tell him but instead internalizes it with a slight grin, understanding it means that once a romantic relationship begins it is deeply satisfying due to an intense commitment. “Lastly,” Wanda breathes out, the pad of her index finger not leaving his palm as she moves back to the area between his thumb and index finger, “the life line.”

Vision shuffles slightly, bending forward at his waist which brings his face closer to hers as he watches her search for the line. “Are you about to tell me when I die?”

A laugh falls from her lips, this question a common misconception, although some readers assert the length of the line is related to the length of the life, but she never interprets it that way.  “No, I am not in the business of soothsaying. Now,” she grips his hand a bit tighter, rotating his wrist to allow her a better view of the line as she tries desperately to ignore how much closer he is to her now than he has been since they met. “It is quite shallow which means you have not moved through life easily.” She waits for a response, but is only provided with a nod and a release of air from his lungs. Gently she allows the tip of her nail to traverse the line, noting two places where the line stops and then starts again, one seems to be from the scarring the other, she is unable to tell. “There are two breaks, which implies unfortunate accidents or major changes.”

“I, so far, am only aware of one.” The words revert back to his utter, unemotional seriousness and it breaks her heart. “Perhaps we will have to determine if you are a soothsayer for the other.”

Wanda turns her full attention to his face, eyes locking with his blue irises. “Have I convinced you then?”

The serious from before falls away with a chuckle and a shake of his head, “Not at all, but I am willing to entertain the notion until it is utterly proven false. Given you predict something else in my future, I suppose I must wait to make my final determination until then."

“Thank you for your partial openness.”

“Of course.”

Wanda flashes him a grin before returning her attention to his palm, drawing her finger the rest of the way along the line, content and relieved at the fact it is long, so long in fact she can follow it from his palm to the base of his wrist, which is where she is met with a new texture, one that is cold and smooth, akin to the feel of the silverware they cleaned earlier in the day. “What is-” he immediately yanks his hand from her grip, nervously rolling the sleeve down to cover his wrist.

“It is nothing.”

The atmosphere around them grows denser as her eyes narrow, attempting to ascertain the new reason for his demeanor to shift, now not the calm yet confident man nor the intensely focused and unemotional butler, but his body taking on the airs of nervousness, feet unable to remain still as he shifts in his seat. Even his eyes cannot determine what to focus on. “Vision?” Wanda reaches out, grips his hand in hopes it induces a sense of calm. 

“Wanda, I,” slowly he regains his typical poise, body stilling as he straightens his spine and tilts his chin up, a move she believes might be an attempt to convince himself more so than her that everything is fine. “I believe it is about to rain.” A flash of lightning illuminates the balcony. “It is also quite late.” An admission that breeds disdain deep within her, her desire is to remain with him, figure out what is wrong, but she also recognizes that whatever is bothering him might need time, and that she worries about pushing the issue.

“It is.”

Vision stands, fingers expertly buttoning the cuff of his shirt, ensuring it cannot ride up and reveal whatever he is hiding, and then he surprises her, reaching out his hand in assistance out of the chair. The offer is accepted, her fingers curling over the edge of his hand, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Would you like to be accompanied to your room?” Wanda is stunned at the connotation, as is Vision, who pauses, his eyes widening and mouth dropping open. “I meant would you like me to walk you back to your room?”

The corners of her mouth rise into a simper, heart beating quite quickly as she strives not to read too much into the fumbled offer. “I think I can manage on my own. Thank you, though.” Wanda gives his hand one more squeeze, allowing her fingers to linger on his skin as she pulls away. “This was nice, are you here every night?”

“It was,” a bashfulness overtakes his body, hands clasped nervously in front of him as his mouth attempts to decide if he provides a small smile or a broad one. “Yes, I am here each night and you are always welcome to join.”  

Wanda’s grin grows wider at the offer. “Good night, Vision.”

She exits the balcony, eyes finally taking in her surroundings and notes this area is far less richly decorated, even the materials seem more common and she realizes this might actually be where Vision lives. A door to her right beckons her but she determines to inquire about it later, perhaps several nights in a row of meeting with the man instead of the butler will illuminate this aspect of the manor. Then she hears footsteps behind her and a, “Wanda." 

Wanda turns to find Vision in the hallway, the row of lighting on the walls providing her with a more complete view of his casual attire, his shirt even scandalously undone three buttons down which reveals a similar pattern to his skin as his hands and her heart breaks all over again. She steps towards him. “Vision?”

“Wanda,” he cocks his head to the side in confusion at the tremble in her voice. “I meant to inform you earlier that Mr. Stark will be arriving tomorrow.”

Everything freezes around her, heart and lungs constricting as she struggles to breathe, managing only a stuttered, “St-stark?”

His head remains tilted, but now his eyes join his confusion. “Correct, Mr. Stark, the owner of the manor.”

There must be a multitude of individuals with the name Stark, and so Wanda attempts to clamp down her panic long enough to inquire, to make sure it is a different Stark. “Tony Stark? 

Vision nods and her heart drops to her feet as her head swims, “Correct.”

Perhaps there are multiple Tony Starks. “Tony Stark, of Stark Industries?”

“Technically the eponymous Stark of Stark industries is the late Howard but yes, Mr. Stark owns and operates it now.”

The straightforward, logically playful response is not appreciated right now, her body developing a tremble as her eyes dart around her surroundings. Then she breathes in and locks her eyes on the blonde-haired man in front of her, releasing an accusatory, “You work for Tony Stark?”

The ire in her voice must not be clear, since he doesn’t seem to be responding to the horror of the question, doesn’t seem to understand why this is information that should be rattling his very existence as much as it is hers. “That is the most logical and parsimonious connection, yes.” 

Wanda can feel the panic rising up from where her heart still lays at her feet, can hear the reverberations of explosions in her memory, the heat of the fire that destroyed her life. But much more prominent than even that, is the complete betrayal of the man in front of her. “Excuse me.” 

A hurried, concerned, “Wanda?” barely registers as she turns to leave.

And Wanda runs.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victorian language decoder:  
> *Make a stuffed bird laugh = Ridiculous  
> **Waggish = Playful  
> ***Bricky = Fearless  
> ****Nativists = A political movement at the time that was anti-immigration, demanding the United States cut off its borders to others.  
> *****Pale-maille = Croquet…but it wasn’t called croquet yet.
> 
> Next time expect some melodramatic encounters and a thickening of the plot. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Kudos and comments always appreciated :D
> 
> Have a wonderful day!


	3. In which the witch plans to flee but ends up with a chance of a lifetime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda has to decide how to handle the revelation that she has been staying at Stark's manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a quick, heartfelt shoutout to my beta, Anya. Your feedback is always fantastic and has improved this story so much. I hope there are still some surprises in here for you :)
> 
> I also wanted to share and give a shoutout to Lazy-stitch for making one of my dreams come true of having someone make fanart for a story! I keep going back and looking at it in awe that it is based on my writing. (http://lazy-stitch.tumblr.com/post/166728411307/wanda-man-this-butler-is-cute-interesting-me)
> 
> As always, I hope you all enjoy the chapter!
> 
> Side note, unrelated to the story, there is a Scarlet Vision Secret Santa being planned, if you're interested, head on over and sign-up! https://thescarletvisionnetwork.tumblr.com/post/167352090078/hello-and-welcome-to-the-2017-scarlet-vision

Wanda only stops running once she comes to the front door, her hand poised over the handle, waiting for something, though she is not entirely certain what. Slowly she turns, assessing the surroundings, noting that the butler only now reaches the bottom of the steps. Vision has not yet attempted to stop her, in fact, he never tried to match her pace, his own stride remaining as slow and even as if he was simply making his way to start his chores. This should be a source of calm, an utter lack of a threat in his behavior, no indication that he means to interfere with her flight other than his continued, concerned gaze and quiet use of her name. Yet it puts her on edge. He stops several feet from her and implores one more time. “Wanda?”

The rounded syllables of her name are soothing in his voice, a fact she grabs onto in her mind and crushes, reminding herself that this man works for Tony Stark. Wanda adjusts the small bag on her shoulder, the one that holds the last of her belongings (perhaps also a few spare pieces of clothing as well, items she will consider donations from Stark) and stands taller, squaring her shoulders in defiance as she simply states, “I have to leave.”

Another calm, “Wanda.” falls from his lips, one hand raising into the air, a gesture that seems unsure if it should be beckoning her back or asking her to simply stand still.

Despite the very strong conviction that her decision is sound, her mind falters slightly, a melancholic twinge resonating from her heart as she takes in the pained confusion on his face. “What?”

“I do not believe it is a wise decision to leave at this hour and in this weather.”

The twinge in her chest turns into a smoldering ire at what she perceives to be the absence of the man she touched on the balcony, replaced fully by the butler who seems to be attempting to ascertain the most logical way to approach the situation. The weather and hour are the least of her worries. “I’ll survive.”

Wanda opens the door, body leaning dangerously forward as her feet root themselves to the floor, heart racing faster at the downpour outside and the flashes of lightning that precede the clamorous rumble of thunder that is so strong it travels from the ground, up through her legs, and rattles her body until it leaves through the top of her head. Her instincts are now split, half of her mind steadfast on leaving, diving into the rain, running until she can’t move her feet, and getting as far from the manor as possible. But the other half of her mind recognizes that she has only ever been on this path once, in the dark and on a carriage driven by another, wholly unable to recall a single fact about that journey other than the nervousness shrouding her mind. She does not know the terrain, is unaware if there are loose roots or steep hillsides, has no idea what direction to even head in to find an inn. “Wanda,” his voice loses an iota of control, the beginning of her name shaking as it leaves his lips, “please.” Her hand remains on the handle as she rotates at the waist, eyes meeting the widened azure stare of the butler, the twinge returning briefly. “It is not safe.”

For all of his meticulous attention to the needs of his guests, he seems incapable of understanding why she has to leave, and so she will be damned if she concedes to his logic, replacing it with her own. “Neither is Stark.”

Wanda doesn’t allow him another chance to offer a logical argument, stepping through the doorway, hands gripping the strap of her bag as she hunches her body down in an attempt to counteract the pounding rain. Once she reaches the bottom of the stairs, she turns, rationalizing it is only out of curiosity that she checks to see if he is following, ignoring the unusual and annoying disappointment when she finds him standing in the doorway. His body is not still, however, feet shuffling and hands clasping and unclasping at a steady, somewhat feverish rate. When he notices her stare he raises his voice, the words barely reaching her over another clang of thunder, “Wanda, please come back inside.”

Since she believes her actions speak for themselves, she does not respond, and this seems enough of an answer, the man dropping his head before he walks back into the house. This is technically what she wants and yet there is a niggling, unshakeable weight of loss at knowing he is gone from her life. But this is not the first loss, not remotely close to the worst, and so Wanda continues, head hanging lower, body tilting into the wind in an attempt to cut through its resistance. Lightning illuminates the world around her for several seconds, allowing her to follow the curve of the road. It is when the thunder follows, almost immediately after the light dissipates, that her mind wanders, transforms the vibrations in her chest from the thunder back to the factory. She was ten, standing in the crowded street, her brother’s hand wrapped protectively around her own. The first explosion was small, barely registering in the surrounding buildings, the noise not much different than the typical churning of the gears and the pounding metal parts against the steel. It was the second explosion that changed their lives, the second one that sent a billowing cloud of ash into the air, that birthed the fire that consumed their hearts, the memory so strong she can feel the heat on her skin and the horrified yelling of the crowd.

“Wanda!”

This voice was never part of that day, a lilting British accent an uncommon trait in Sokovia. The angle of the rain’s attack changes, shifting from assaulting her face to pelting her back as she turns towards the man, who seemingly only left the door in order to put on a long overcoat and switch out his pristinely polished loafers for knee high boots. “Vision?”

The discomfort of the weather is quite clear in the downturn of his mouth and the way he darts his eyes constantly, each branch of lightning arresting his attention and the ensuing thunder startling him enough that she can make out the twitching on his face. His hands tremble as well, only discernible due to the way his lantern sways in the air, casting its light in frenzied patterns. “Wanda, this is,” his words are drowned out by the pummeling water, causing him to have to (she imagines much to his own discontent) raise his voice to be heard. “Wanda, this is preposterous, please come back to the manor.”

An hour ago she would listen to his words, reach out and grasp his hand, allow him to lead her back. But when the name Stark surfaces, a name seared into her brain from a young age, a name that has become synonymous with heartache, with lying balled up in a corner sobbing, with the eventual needles and surgeries, with fire and the hollowness in her chest, everything changes. Her mind shifts, reorganizes all the information and observations of the blonde-haired man standing in front of her, grows suspicious of his kindness and the coincidence that of all the butlers in all the manors, it is Stark’s that befriends her, is always there to pull her from the river. She has met false kindness before, trusted individuals with gentle smiles and concerned eyes, and now, well, now scarlet courses through her veins, pulsating with fury and threatening to explode from her body. Yet she also knows the danger of false conclusions and so she seeks to force him to confirm her suspicions, not wanting to revert to reading his mind. “Did he send you after me?”

“Mr. Stark?”

Wanda steps closer to the man, finger aimed at his chest, “Yes, did he send you after me?”

The usual control of his emotions is gone, washed away by the rivulets winding down his face, their pathways determined by where the water collects in his increasingly untamed hair. His eyes squint as he seems to think through the accusation, lips opening and then closing, a tiny shake of his head the first indication of what he is going to claim. “No. He-” Wanda doesn’t have to reach out to sense the blossoming, twisted confusion in his mind, the feeling so palpable it is almost sickening. “No.”

This is not enough, everyone denies at first. “Then why were you always there?”

Vision’s face falls as the rain finally extinguishes the lantern, the oppressive darkness of the night closing in around them, broken only when lightning fills the sky. It is during the next such break, the blue fire branching to reach from the manor all the way to the mountains behind it, that she first wavers in her decision, watching as his eyes follow the light and his body caves in on itself, shoulders hunching, bringing the stiff fabric of his coat higher up along his neck. Before the last arm of the light blinks out, he meets her eyes, brings a tentative, terrified hand to her arm, the first time he has been the one to touch her. “Wanda, may we please discuss this inside?”

It is, as always with him, the most logical appeal, inside is drier, brighter, and quieter, a far more conducive environment for conversation, but it is also where order and rules reside, waiting to stifle the truth with carefully guarded words. Out here she is at home, surrounded by chaos, and it is not often she has the advantage. “No. Answer the question.”

The next branch of lightning he does not follow with his eyes, though his fingers do cinch slightly tighter into the fabric of her dress, instead his gaze is unmoving, eyes locked with her own. The intensity, in any other situation, would be enough for her to glance away, fingers tempted to run nervously through her hair, but Wanda quashes that response, keeping her eyes even with his, challenging him to speak. “Wanda…”

“Just answer the question.”

Finally he breaks from her stare, head dipping to study the mud forming at their feet as his hand leaves her arm, traveling down into the pocket of his coat as his body collapses further in on itself, becoming as small and closed off as is possible without disappearing. “The first time we met,” which was actually the third time she ended up in the river, “I had been informed of your prior treatment. It was,” he pauses, releasing a shaky breath, “abhorrent to me, that someone would be treated in such a way; therefore, I resolved to be of aid if it happened once more.”

The explanation stops, his words hanging in the air until they are obliterated by the unrelenting rain. This is still not enough. “Why did you keep coming back?”

Now he raises his face, the next flash of lightning highlighting the defeated lines of his mouth, and she fears whatever is next because she knows there are no bounds to evil and that this man, though seemingly apologetic, is clearly hiding something. “I-,” he inhales, dropping his gaze once more, voice lowering and forcing her to step closer to him. “I had believed you would be a crone, that is,” an embarrassed smile lifts his lips just long enough for it to register and then it resettles into a regretful line, “what all the novels suggest about fortune tellers. But you were,” Wanda’s lungs mimic his inhale, breath sitting in her chest until he releases the air as well, “remarkably unconventional. I, I found myself intrigued by you and drawn to you.” The words try to prod her heart, increase its beating, but the sorrowful tone constricts its movements, confuses her, angers her because she suspects she knows why he seems so remorseful about the confession. Vision lifts his eyes and his gaze is unreadable, caught somewhere between the man on the balcony and the emotionless void of the butler.  The tone of his voice becomes more matter-of-fact, causing his words to straddle the line between a confession and a simple statement, suggesting the content is inconsequential despite the enormous impact it has on her. “I reoriented my entire schedule to ensure I could be there to assist you.”

Wanda stares at the man, waits for a flash of lightning so she can truly study his face, notes the hallowed, unshakeable sincerity in his eyes that contrasts with the abject terror when the thunder vibrates the ground beneath them. It seems, contrary to every parable of her life, that she has found a truly decent man. Slowly she steps forward, prepared to grab his hand and go back to the manor for the night. But then he speaks again and it shatters the spell of his decency. “Wanda, I assure you Mr. Stark knew nothing of our interactions until I inquired if you could use the manor as a haven for your séances.”

The words push her back, her fingers curling into tight, trembling fists, her nails digging into the grooves already scarring her palm. “How can you work for Stark?”

His answer comes far too easily to provide anything short of enmity in her mind. “He is a good man...”

“Thank you,” Wanda grips the strap of the bag tighter as she prepares to turn and continue down the road, “if that is how you view Stark then I have no desire to continue speaking with you.”

The road, like her own life at this point, has become mired, her feet stumbling as she attempts to move through the thick, merciless mud. His, “Wanda!” is loud and alarmed, but she keeps moving, lifting each foot an exaggerated amount to release it from the grip of the oozing ground, which makes his second, “Wanda!” shiver in agony.  

His persistence, on any other occasion, might actually warm her heart, kickstart it into an excited frenzy, but tonight it has the opposite effect, a frigidness coursing through her veins as she turns, deciding it was a mistake to draw out the man, because the butler would surely let her go. Wanda calculates the best way to reverse his transition, hoping to desist his advance with her words. “It is Miss Maximoff to you.”

This stops his pursuit with stunning efficiency, which allows her the chance to continue on without interference, and yet Wanda discovers her feet betraying her, not trying as hard to escape the squelching mud, body turning one last time towards Vision, the sporadic bursts of illumination outlining his body as he stands staring at her, arms hanging to the side, shoulders open and welcoming of the rain, the only things that seem to concern him now are her and her words. It appears that his mouth is moving, but she cannot make out the words, the rain drumming in her ears, mixing with the warlike pounding of her heart. Wanda steps closer and the question becomes audible.  “Why do you hate Mr. Stark?”

Hate is a far more primal word than she ever thought Vision would allow his mouth to form, a word that feels unwelcome in his accent, but it is the only word that can properly describe her feelings towards Stark. The answer is both complicated and yet strikingly simple; it depends on if she informs him of every fallout of Stark’s initial actions or merely states the first, and most heinous, offense. “Because he killed my parents.”

Denial is the first emotion on his face, brow folding into deep wrinkles of thought as he banishes the doubtful _No_ she can feel at the front of his mind, replacing it with a surprisingly calm, neutral face. “I,” the calm dissipates with the first word, his voice uncertain as he continues, “was not aware.” He pauses, head tilting as he weighs his next course of action. “How did-”

Wanda could read his mind, if she wanted, but the path of the sentence is easy enough to decode without prying. “My parents worked in his factory in Novi Grad. They were working when it exploded.”

A gratifying horror weighs his jaw down, mouth opening in time with the widening of his eyes as he stares at her, works through this piece of information. But then he speaks and her axis is thrown off course, having expected an apology or condolence, not, “The electromagnetic coil system.”

“You know about it?” The vitriol of her accusation is clear, Vision taking a step back as she lifts an unsteady finger once more towards his chest. “If you know, that means Stark knew the problem.”

Vision nods, confirming the information Wanda long suspected but never had proof of, “Yes, he was aware.”

“Do you know what he gave me in return for my loss?” The man shakes his head, lips tight and eyes sorrowful as he waits for her to continue, his body leaning ever so slightly forward to hear her next words.  “He gave me nothing. No,”  as her anger builds, compounding with the exhausting swing of this man from ally to betrayer and the strong, instinctual need to fight, she finds any semblance of words leaving her, mind blank on how to describe exactly what Stark failed to provide. To his credit, Vision does not offer any suggestions, does not move, he may not even be breathing, as he waits for her to finish her thought.  Eventually she gives up, forging on ahead, with a frustrated wave of her hand as she finishes, knowing it is not what she actually means. “No...awards.”

“Do you mean reparations?”

“Yes,” now that he says the word it cannot leave her mind, which only amplifies her fury, not needing his help nor the help of anyone else. Wanda has been alone for long enough that the requirement of another is non-existent. “No reparations, no acknowledgement of what happened.” Wanda recalls the moment she saw them close the doors of the factory for the last time, when the final stack stopped billowing smoke, the day Pietro first cursed the name Stark and instilled in them a lifelong hatred. All of this she directs towards Vision, who is intently listening with a disconcerted, yet empathetic slant to his mouth. “Not only did we lack reparations, Stark disappeared completely from Sokovia.”

There were many facets to the depression of the Sokovian economy, but Wanda knew, her entire adolescence, that one of the largest factors was Stark’s rescinding of his company. After the explosion, and the deaths of over a hundred workers, he left, fleeing in the night, his prior economic aid simply a phantom, a ghost story told by the older generations of a time when food was more readily available, when the steam in the air meant dreams could be sown. The only thing Wanda had after the death of her parents was her brother, but even that, like all other things, could not last. She lifts her finger higher, staring hard at Vision, thankful, barely, at his continued silence. “If not for Stark, my brother would be alive as well. If not for Stark I would not be,” the scarlet energy snakes through her body as she attempts to admit the truth, to lay bare exactly what Stark created when he failed to act like a human towards those he had harmed. But she can’t say it to this man, she can barely admit it to herself, and so she tamps down the scarlet licking at her palms and tells him the truth, knowing he will not understand, “Ne bi bila monstrum*.”  The man simply stares at her, face locked in a state of shock, only his eyes moving as they blink away the water streaming down his face. Wanda decides to use his silence to finish her thought, seizing his reluctance to speak in order to reiterate what she has shared. “Stark took everything from me. He is the devil.”

When the butler finally speaks, his voice is quiet, inaudible over the rain so Wanda finds she has to gently insert herself into the surface of his thoughts to fully parse out his words. “I did not know.”

The earnestness of the words breaks her heart, the sentence splitting in two at the waver of despair in his voice. Perhaps she cannot hold this man accountable for Stark, a thought that troubles her, is counter to every other instinct that screams within her body. What she suggests next is rash, dangerous, and yet she cannot deny the appeal, finds she craves the proof that this man is different, because if he is not, she fears no one ever will be. “Then leave him.”

“Pardon me?”

Wanda stands to her full height, which still only brings her to his shoulders, but the effect on him is notable, his feet stepping back, knees bending slightly to counterbalance the grip of the mud on his boots. “I said leave him. Now that you know what he is, what he’s done, leave, start a life for yourself outside of being someone’s property.”

Vision gawks at the offer, hands nervously wringing at his waist as he scrutinizes her face. There might (though she readily admits she could be imagining it) be a slight upturn to the corners of his mouth, but then his demeanor changes, all softness leaving, replaced by the impassive, rigid tone she knows means he has arrested and locked away whatever individual will he possesses. “Miss Maximoff,” this is the first nail in the coffin, “I cannot do that,” the second and her heart hardens, a bitter disappointment boiling up from deep within her, scarlet clearly erupting from her palms, but she makes no attempt to hide it this time, hopes he see it, wants it to terrify him. But his eyes do not leave her face. “You must understand, my livelihood depends on remaining with Stark.”

The lid shuts and she glares at the butler. “I see.”

Wanda executes the best turn she can within the confines of the oppressive mud, but his voice tethers her to the ground, stopping her long enough to hear his words, to know what she will last remember from this man. “Miss Maximoff, I will not stop you from leaving, nor will I force you to remain with Stark, but I do implore you to come back to the manor for the evening. The road is too dangerous in these conditions.”

Unlike before, the logic is not infuriating, because she knows now the man never existed, that the only true identity of Vision is the servile butler, with no wants or desires beyond the small life he holds at the manor. It is almost freeing, the realization, her heart aching at the loss but relieved that she has no reason to stay. “How do I know you won’t turn me over to Stark?”

There is a flash of hurt on his face, which perhaps is true or perhaps is only due to the shadows cast by the lightning. “You only have my word.” The argument is a weak one, yet the defeated slouch of his shoulders implies it is all he has, and for some reason she finds herself believing him, her heart, contrary to her mind, still trusting this man. “If you come back tonight, I vow that I will spend every minute tomorrow searching for a safe place for you to live that is far from Stark,” he pauses and she feels the real thought in his mind _far from me_ , “and far from the river. You will not need to leave your room until you are departing the manor.” Slowly his shoulders regain their typical poise, straightening out as his spine stacks to bring him to his full height. “Is this acceptable?”

Wanda knows the answer should be _no_ , can hear the ghost of her brother urging her to leave, the pulse of her instincts clear, and yet she is drained, her anger crashing into a simmer, one that weighs everything down from her arms, to her legs, but is most keenly felt in her heart. A warm, dry manor would be nice. But she cannot fully disregard her concerns and so Wanda drops her hand into the folds of her soaking wet skirt, extends a finger and enters the butler’s mind where instantly she is bathed in his genuineness, can see the plans he is already forming to keep her from Stark. This is enough for one night. “Fine.”

“Thank you.”

Together they walk in silence back to the manor.

 

 

The morning leisurely saunters through the curtains and Wanda realizes she barely slept, thoughts too busy careening around the uncomfortable fact that everything around her has been touched by Stark. The bed has lost any semblance of luxury, the down feather comforter transforming from a fluffy cloud to a stifling, weighted cage. The dressing gown she currently wears (Vision having insisted, quite vehemently, that she allow him to dry her clothing lest she catch a chill) is abrasive on her skin. The chairs no longer support her back, her body unwilling to touch everything at once, and so she finds herself sitting in the middle of the floor, the rug tossed to the side so she can touch the wood beams. There is no way Stark chose the floors.

Exactly on time she can hear footsteps outside her door, though they are slower, more measured than what she expects, but there is no one else they can belong to. Wanda folds her hands in her lap, pushing down the minuscule temptation to open the door and confront the man with the additional questions she has for him. But that is futile. He made his decision quite clear. Her resolve lessens somewhat when she feels a burst of despair from outside the door, hears a hushed, though pained intake of breath. Yet she resists, remaining on the floor until the echo of his footsteps are gone. Slowly Wanda stands, her feet avoiding the rugs and carpets, hips swaying away from the furniture as she approaches the door.

At first glance there is nothing off about what she finds, the same copper pitcher with a white towel around the handle and the same neatly folded clothing. But when she moves her foot to grab the pitcher, her toes recoil at the damp heat of the rug. Carefully she lifts the copper vessel, notes the level of the water is lower than the past two days, and takes it inside. What has not changed is the temperature, just below scalding, a feeling of absolution with each splash of water on her face. This, she determines, is the only thing she will miss, luxury no longer defined by opulent decor or sumptuous cushions, but by a readily available supply of hot water that does not require stoking a fire or sharing with the other tenants of the building.

Her euphoria is disrupted by a soft knock, the type that someone uses when they are uncertain if they actually want the door to be answered. If he doesn’t want her to acknowledge his presence, then she most certainly is going to answer.  So she divorces herself from the pleasure of the basin and sends a tendril of scarlet to open the door, arriving just in time to remove any suspicion she did not open it with her hand.

The tightly controlled cadence of her name reaches her almost instantly. “Miss Maximoff.”

“What do you want?” Her question might be a touch more brusque than intended, but given all that occurred the night before, it is not, at least Wanda deems, uncalled for. Yet still he flinches slightly, just a quick blink and a slight tightening of his shoulders that, under any other circumstance, would be unnoticeable yet her senses seem heightened since the Stark revelation, acutely aware of everything as she continually assesses her surroundings. This includes the fact that his hair is just slightly out of place, a small cluster of strands rebelling against the meticulously groomed, subtle swoop of his hair to the right. His clothing is different as well, the typical crispness reduced to a sad rumple, even one of his ivory buttons undone. But most telling of his unease is a high pitched clinging rising up to meet her ears. Wanda looks down to find him holding her tea, the cup teetering dangerously from the tremble of his hand. “Here,” she reaches out to calm the clink of the porcelain, wrapping her fingers around the available surface, remaining conscientious enough to not touch his hand as she transfers the cup to herself.

“Thank you, Miss Maximoff,” his eyes drop, undercutting his gratitude with a cloud of embarrassment.

It is irksome that her first inclination is concern, an internal betrayal that she tries to clamp down, remove from the equation of her actions, yet it is difficult. Wanda decides to sate the concern so she can drop it from her heart and leave it far behind. “Are you feeling okay?”

The butler’s eyes lift, briefly connecting with her own gaze before settling on the area just above her shoulder, creating a cold aloofness to his demeanor. “Yes, Miss Maximoff, my prior injuries are simply agitated by the change in barometric pressure.” It is a lie, or so the muscles in his cheeks twitching in time with the drumming of his fingers against his thigh seem to suggest. But she is not going to inquire further, her duty of concern completed. “I wished to inform you that I will be gone for the majority of the day to acquire the most suitable and appropriate dwelling for you.” Wanda opens her mouth for a polite _thank you_ , yet he does not allow her to break the flow of his words, the script memorized and any disruption would render the monologue moot. “Mr. Stark is expected to arrive around ten thirty this morning, but I have deliberately arranged several social obligations in town so that he will not remain at the manor until I have returned for the evening.”

There is a break in the wave of his instructions, just long enough for a politely dispassionate “Thank you.”

“In case he determines to be petulantly disobedient,” a phrase that she would suspect to carry some malice but Vision almost sounds amused by the possibility, “I have written down instructions on how to access the most useful servant passageways so that you may acquire anything you need without fear of interacting with Mr. Stark.” He pulls a neatly folded piece of parchment from his pocket and holds it out to her, not continuing his instructions until she grabs it. “Your breakfast and lunch are in the kitchen. Is there anything else you need before I depart, Miss Maximoff?”

Several questions waltz through her mind, curiosities and clarifications (perhaps a few accusations) she’s been mulling over during her insomniatic night. But the detached air of his presence means his answers would be infuriatingly straightforward and yet still manage to circumvent the truth of what she needs to know. “No.” With a nod he turns, his body stiff as he walks down the hall, legs carrying him with a labored, unsteady gait.

 Wanda shakes her head, exorcising the last of her concern for the butler, and closes the door. Carefully she unfolds the parchment, takes in the slanted writing, this aid different from his last, devoid of any illustrations. Her fingertips follow the creases of the paper, folding it back up and placing it on the desk against the wall. She rises onto the balls of her feet, tiptoeing around the items on the floor, and takes back up her vigil in the middle of the room.

 

 

By the time the room darkens that evening, Wanda has moved from her place on the floor exactly three times. Once to journey to the kitchen, scooping up not only the breakfast and lunch that was prepared, but also other goods she might need during the day or for when she leaves this wretched manor for good. The other two times were to simply move about the room, regain the feeling in her legs from extended meditation, a proactive defense to the turmoil she anticipates when Stark’s presence enters the house.

It is just after the clock downstairs releases six resounding gongs, that her mind wakens to the two additional sources of thought in the manor. Vision’s is first, the calm aura she has become accustomed too a bit frenzied, somewhat uneven due to a pulsing worry. She does not dwell on this agitation, powers transitioning immediately to the second, louder mind, the stream of ideas bouncing so quickly his entire presence is practically vibrating. It is revolting. The fragile calm she had mustered throughout the day is shattered, making way for a scorching disdain to perform a coup of her control.

The two minds part, Tony’s remaining in the main room while the butler’s climbs the stairs, haltingly approaching her room. Wanda doesn’t wait for him to knock, skirt twisting as her feet knock over the mug on the floor, her body hurriedly advancing to the door, yanking open the heavy oaken slab before the man has the chance to knock. The alarmed consternation that works through his limbs is satisfying, lower lip dropping slowly as he attempts to collect himself. “Miss,” his voice breaks, fumbling her name at the intensity of her stare, “Maximoff.”

“Yes?”

Vision  swallows, fingers curling into fists, the disquieted beacon of his mind calming enough for him to continue. “I wished to inform you that I was able to secure a dwelling for you in Normanskill.”

The name is not recognizable despite the threatening nature of its title. “Where is that?”

He coughs, a gentle clearing of his throat, before answering. “It is south of Albany, established only a few years ago, but it is the only locale where your,” the sentence stops, his head tilting to the right as he considers how to finish his thought without offending her, “reputation has not preceded you.”

“I’m that well-known?”

A slow, cautious nod goes along with his confirmation, “You are quite infamous thanks to your séance with Mr. Smith.”

Though the séance did more harm to her than good, there is still a sense of pride that she has become a household name, even if she would rather her celebrity include the promise of increased revenue and the ability to regularly eat. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, Miss Maximoff.” She presents him with a false, thin smile, palm pressing firmly against the door to close it, but then he stops her, “I had two other items I wished to discuss with you, Miss Maximoff.”  Her eyes roll, fingernails gripping the decorative panels of the door, but she leaves it open, a curt wave of her free hand encouraging him to finish his list so she can be alone once more. “First,” the butler stands a bit taller now, hands traveling behind his back as his voice neutralizes, “dinner will be ready in approximately ten minutes. Mr. Stark wished me to invite you to join, though please know it is not required.”

“Good, then I decline.”

Vision nods slowly at her answer, releasing a despondent sigh. “Very well, I shall bring your food up once we are finished. Mr. Stark and I always eat our meals together, if that is any consolation or encouragement for your reconsideration of the invitation.” There is no reason, as far as she can identify, for this to comfort her, the idea of eating with Stark unpleasant enough to repel her interest regardless of if she would be alone with him or with another. Vision seems to understand her silence, shoulders lowering and feet shifting as he averts his gaze. “Very well. Second,” his right arm disengages from its place behind his back, his black-gloved hand dipping into the inside pocket of his jacket as he removes a small box and holds it between them, his hand trembling even more noticeably now than it had that morning. “Since your other set was destroyed, I did not wish to send you on your way without a full arsenal for your occupation.”

A hesitant, beguiling curiosity swirls in her chest as she accepts the box, fingers running along the edges before prying the lid off. The contents are immediately recognizable, a feeling of mysticism in the lines of the drawings, the knowing smiles on some of the faces beckoning her to interpret the seedy predictions dripping from their simpering gazes, but the artwork is more abstract than what she has always acquired. Wanda shuffles through the tarot deck, attempting to differentiate the smiling woman clothed in red with two swords from the smiling woman wrapped in blue that has one sword. Her heart slows for a moment as she reaches a decision, fingers expertly aligning the edges of the cards as she lays them back into the box. “Thank you, but I cannot use these.”

Much to her surprise, the man does not take the cards back, forehead scrunching, forcing his eyes to narrow as he stares at the box in her hand. “Is it because I bought them?”

The melancholy of the question is poignant, hanging between them in the thickening air. “No.”

“Is it because you must have a spiritual connection to the cards?”

She probably should say yes, rattle on about the importance of a mystical connection between her heart and the cards, but there is no way she could say it right now and be convincing. “No.”

“Is it-”

A brisk brush of his mind reveals a long list of potential reasons, one he likely carefully crafted on his journey home, anticipating her refusal and prepared to utilize this exchange to determine where he stands in her eyes, if the fifth item on his list is any indication. Wanda refuses to allow him to suffer and decides that she might as well speak the truth since she will never see this man again. “It is because I cannot read them.”

His mind slams into an eerie stillness, the entire list dissipating, this possibility absent from any of his assumptions. The information not only stalls his mind but his body as well, face impassive and hand half-raised (though still shaking), looking like one of the mannequins in the shop windows in the city. “But I have left you many notes.”

“And I have not used them.”

He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, preparing to inquire further, likely delineate how exactly she found him on her first day (which would require an explanation that numbers are fairly universal as compared to letters), but then he drops all signs of inquiry, straightening his back and offering the most logical solution. “Miss Maximoff, I would happily read them to you so that you may translate them, rendering them serviceable.”

If he were not Stark’s butler, if they were back on the balcony less than a day ago, her answer would be different, but if she takes these cards, accepts his offer, then every time she uses them she will be forced to think of gentle eyes that hid a malicious truth. With a tight smile she pushes the cards against his chest, releasing her grip and forcing him to trap the box to his body so that the cards do not spill everywhere. “I am a patron of a specific shop for my cards, one that carries Sokovian versions. I would rather use those.”

“I understand, Miss Maximoff.” A small, rigid bow marks the end of their conversation. “I will deliver your food later.”

It must be a rule of Roberts to wait for an answer, his body remaining a taut, nervous statue, only leaving once she says a dry, “Thank you.”

Wanda closes the door, a red strand encasing her damp bag and bringing it to rest on the desk. Everything she had packed the night before has been laying out drying in the room, thus all she has to do is swipe her arm from right to left, her powers collecting the clothing and papers into a bundle that slides easily into the open bag. Her stomach grumbles as she packs, a fairly common occurrence in her life that she typically ignores until it goes away. But now it draws her mind to the offer, the invitation to sit across from Stark. Clearly she should stay upstairs, she had resolved, upon landing on the shore of New York City, that it was time to break from her past, disentangle from the suffocating web of horror her actions had spun, and yet, the idea of turning down such an opportunity seems insulting to the memory of Pietro. Countless nights they would lie awake fantasizing about all the ways they could find Stark, of the words they would use, the actions they would take once they were face-to-face with the devil himself, a need for retribution driving their will to live. If Pietro were in her place, she knows he would go accept what fate had provided.

A resoluteness engulfs her body, garnering the confidence needed to leave her room, to walk down the stairs and approach the cherry wood door that leads to the dining room. Wanda pauses, heart frantic with indecision even though her mind is steadfast in the rightness of her actions. She can make out their voices through the partition and presses her body closer to the wood, powers reaching out just enough to fill in the inaudible inflections.

“Vision, I can’t wait for you to lay eyes on her, she is butter upon bacon**, she is the jammiest bit of jam***, and, the best part is that Detmond*** loved your idea, kept calling me a genius for suggesting it. You’ll have to meet him when we go for the exhibition.”

“We?”

“Yes, we discussed this, I can’t do the presentation alone. Especially if they ask questions about the circuits.” There is barely any space between the man’s thoughts, words rushing straight from explanation to gossip. “I also had to raise a fuss about the layout. Guess who they put me next to.” Wanda strains to hear the response, but nothing happens, the butler’s mind staunch in its refusal to participate, which becomes clear when Tony speaks again. “You are just all enthuzimuzzy***** tonight. They put me next to Elisha****** and his damn elevator.”

“To be fair, sir, Mr. Otis is likely quite disconcerted at the news as well, particularly after what you did at the last Exhibition in London.” Wanda is mildly impressed that Vision seems willing to imbue such dry, yet well crafted cheekiness into his response. She's certain Robert Roberts would frown upon the action. But that is not what she should focus on, whether the butler is out of line in speaking to his employer. No, even though she could likely gather useful information by allowing them to continue their banter, if she is going to confront her past, it is best not to delay it any longer. A laborious, halting inhale steadies the last of her nerves, encouraging her body to push against the door and open it. The conversation stops as she enters, the two men sitting next to each other at the table, a feeling of casualness in the distance between them, particularly since she believed she’d find them sitting at opposite ends of the grand table. Vision stares at her in disbelief, more time than is likely acceptable passing between her entrance and him standing from the table with a hurried, uncertain, “Miss Maximoff.”

Whatever he does next is ignored, her stare focused on one thing only. Stark doesn’t follow the socially normative action to stand from the table, body leaned back in the chair as a cavalier grin parts his lips. “Our spiritualist has arrived!” A loose bend of his wrist and an easy-going wave directs her to the seat across from his, “Sit down, V will grab you some food.”  A quiet _Yes, sir_ barely registers, the searing rage building in her chest and spreading up into her mind narrows her intentions and her thoughts to the man at the table. With deliberately slow steps she walks to the seat, sitting down and placing her palms on her thighs to hide the eruptions of scarlet that arc between her fingers. “So how’s it going? Hope Vision’s been treating you well. ”

The question is asked with a friendly smile but the comment that follows is accompanied by a grotesquely impish waggle of his eyebrows. What he seems unaware of is that his social charms will not bewitch her. “You have no idea who I am.”

His smile falls, the corners dipping as his eyes shift to the left, body turning towards where Vision had been, but then rotating back towards her once he realizes he no longer has someone there to offer an explanation. “I know you’re a spiritualist with a penchant for getting tossed in rivers.”

Every daydream, every hypothetical fantasy she and Pietro crafted never took into consideration how coming face-to-face with Stark would feel. This man, with his jaunty smile and casual air, killed her parents, he ruined her life, the idea of revenge, of avenging the damage he had done has driven her since she was ten, impelled her to undergo invasive experiments, to invite the scarlet curse into her body. She has not gone a single day without considering exactly how she would ruin this man, always planning to start with his mind since it is his defining attribute, Stark hailed as the savior of ingenuity. Once his mind is ruined, she always assumed she would allow him to wallow in agony, watch as his world crumbled around him, as he lost every single thing he had ever cherished. Even then she does not think he would fully understand what he put her through. Yet in this moment, all she wants to do is wrap two threads of scarlet around his neck and drain the smile from his face. “I am. Do you recall Novi Grad in-”

The turmoil in her chest and the intention solidifying in her mind is clearly muddled from perception, the man shaking his uncharacteristic moment of uncertainty from his face, shifting his body so that he leans conspiratorially against the table, bringing his hand down to slap the wooden slabs, cutting her off with an enthusiastic, “I just had the best idea.”

A quiet, “Sir?” breaks her concentration, both her eyes and Stark’s traveling towards the plate wobbling in the butler’s hands.

“Here,” Stark stands, taking the plate of food from Vision with a paternal pat to his back. “Please tell me the swan didn't get you again?”

The butler’s, “Sir,” is longer than required, beseeching the man to relent from this line of questioning.

Unsurprisingly Stark seems oblivious, even turns to Wanda for further elucidation, Vision’s lips slanting in disapproval behind Stark. “Apparently we’ve got a vindictive waterfowl, keeps knocking him into the pond. I, personally,” the man brings his free hand to his chest, emphasizing his thoughts on the issue, his insouciance******* clearly distressing the butler, which only deepens Wanda’s resolve to destroy this man, “don’t see the issue, it’s a beautiful bird.”

Vision clenches his fingers, an imploring, horrified gaze leveled at his owner, “Sir, we have discussed this many times, simply because its plumage is pristine does not negate the fact it is a vile and bricky beast.”

“Sure, it also doesn’t negate the fact you need to take better care of yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tony rolls his eyes at Wanda, mouthing something she’s sure is about how the butler is overreacting but she cannot interpret it, doesn’t care to do so at the moment. Her eyes follow as he places the ceramic plate on the table, the edges spilling over with roasted chicken, squash, and herbed potatoes, but Wanda cannot fathom having an appetite with Stark this close. “Anyway, my little spiritualist,” Vision tenses, eyes nervously moving between Wanda and Stark as he waits for whatever comes next. “I was thinking you should do a séance tomorrow, see if you’re as terrifying as everyone says you are.”

The idea confuses and enrages her, but not nearly as much as Vision answering in her place with a gentle yet stern, “Mr. Stark, Miss Maximoff is leaving in the morning, I do not believe she would be interested.”

Her scarlet energy calms, forming a steady blanket of red along her skirt, and she allows a rare, victorious smirk to form on her lips.  “I suppose I can stay one more day.” Wanda had always planned to start with Stark’s mind, what better way than with an open invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victorian and Sokovian language translator.
> 
> *Ne bi bila monstrum: I would not be a monster  
> **butter upon bacon: extravagant  
> ***jammiest bit of jam: absolutely perfect, technically circa 1883 but come on, you know Tony would say something like that, probably invented it  
> ****Detmond: The head engineer of the Crystal Palace of New York  
> *****Enthuzimuzzy: Sarcastically calling someone enthusiastic.  
> ******Elisha Otis invented the elevator and unveiled it in 1853.  
> *******insouciance: casual lack of concern
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed! Kudos and comments always appreciated. :)
> 
> PS: I swear upon everything I hold dear, next chapter you will find out what's under Vision's shirt, amongst other similarly important reveals.


	4. In which a seance finally doesn’t end in a river

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda performs a seance at Stark’s manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay, writing for the Scarlet Vision Secret Santa and then going on a week long trip made it a bit difficult to get this out on my usual schedule. But I hope, as always, you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> To Anya,
> 
> Sorry this is about a week late, though I did have the first draft done before your birthday :). Since you received so much fluff for your Christmas gift, I thought I’d give you some angst. Thank you for being the best beta ever, the only reason this story is happening and remotely coherent is because of your amazing input and suggestions. Plus it’s been a gift for you the whole time, so there’s that as well :). I hope you enjoy this and I swear fluff is coming in the next chapter!

A round table sits in the middle of the checkered floor, the suede wingback chairs pushed against the far wall while the leather couch has taken up residence under the window. There are seven chairs at the table, each transported from the dining room and placed at even intervals to allow enough space for some freedom of movement, but close enough that everyone at the table can grip the hands of their neighbors. A white, lace trimmed tablecloth covers the worn and faded wood, an assortment of white tapered candles (not her usual style but she cannot be picky since she is fully aware the materials are merely for show) illuminate the faces of the people around the table.

Wanda remains hidden in the hallway adjoining the kitchen, eyes roaming over the guests waiting impatiently at the table, a nervous, pulsating energy filling the room, which is the ideal atmosphere for a successful séance. “Miss Maximoff,” though there are seven chairs, two are unoccupied, one for her, and the other had been meant for the butler, yet he seems staunchly against joining the séance.

“Yes?”

The man’s skin is mottled, hands noticeably shaking at a near constant rate, and his steps are even more halted and uneven than the day before. It is only due to the anticipation of entering Stark’s mind that she is able to temper her desire to reach out and steady him. Instead her face remains impassive as she watches him, with what she assumes is a wince of pained impropriety, lean his shoulder against the doorframe for support as he speaks to her. “Are you certain you do not wish to discuss the general background of the people here tonight? I have been reading the recommended practices and it was the only item mentioned by every source.”

For any other medium that is true, the ability to utilize information from the personal lives and backgrounds of the clients a necessary and powerful tool in any instance of spiritualistic practice, but Wanda has never had a problem discovering the sordid and deeply buried truths in her marks. “Thank you, but I am fairly,” she pauses, trying to determine the best term for her abilities, “gifted at reading people.”

“Very well, Miss Maximoff.”

Wanda glances at the clock mounted to the wall, estimating the last guest arrived roughly five minutes ago, which means she should allow at least a few more minutes of antsiness to build before sweeping in. “Are you certain you don’t wish to join?”

A shake of his head accompanies the slow exhale of his decision, “I must prepare dinner, Miss Maximoff, though I will certainly,” the sentence breaks in half as he inhales, breath shaky and his eyes blinking languidly as he refocuses on what he was trying to say, “step in to observe, if that is acceptable.”

“Of course.” The longer she remains next to him, can hear the shortened and erratic intake of his breath, the less concerned she is with the séance, mind beginning to tilt away from revenge and towards empathy. “Vision are you-”

The lapse in her judgment is thankfully eradicated, the echo of footfalls and Tony’s “Are you ready yet?” chilling her blood to the point her body is functioning solely on muscle memory, leaving her mind unhampered by anything other than the task at hand.

Absentmindedly her hand lifts to run along the beaded headdress, tracing the spheres up until she can adjust the edges to bring the central point of the diadem to fall just between her eyebrows, strands of scarlet beads cascading down along her cheeks. Wanda smiles at both men, pulling her shoulder blades down, forming an arch in her back that brings her chin up into a haughty, confident angle. “I believe we can start now.”

“Good.” Despite his apparent impatience and rush, Tony lingers behind as she walks down the hall, his voice lowering so she cannot make out the words, but a glance over her shoulder provides some context, though she is confused at the gingerness in the way he lays his hand on the butler’s arm, body leaning closer to say something. Then the moment passes with an amicable pat, Stark taking several large steps to catch up to her own pace. “I hope you won’t be offended when I prove you’re a fraud like all the others.”

Wanda’s mouth forms a tight smile at his provocation, “So long as you are not offended when you fail.” The man laughs and she savors it, consuming this last sound of joy and using it as fuel for what is to come. Her movements are fluid and slightly exaggerated as she takes her seat, fingers interlacing atop the tablecloth, every ring on her fingers carefully chosen as either a reminder of her past or as a token of mysticism to increase perceptions of her credibility. “Since Vision will not be joining us, please adjust your seats so you can reach the hand on either side of you.”

Wanda uses this time of repositioning to finally study the people at the table. Immediately to her right, as instructed, is Stark, hands unable to remain still, rubbing incessantly along his thighs as he chatters with the woman next to him. Based on their interactions so far, this woman (Pep as Tony calls her or, likely more correct, is the Miss Potts that fell as a surprised exclamation from the butler when the woman stormed into the manor three hours early demanding to know why Tony was absent from tea this morning) is romantically entangled with Stark, for some reason. This woman is far more than simply an attractive ornament on Stark’s arm, the air of grace and merciless intelligence that surrounds her intrigues Wanda. If it was any other séance, Wanda would no doubt choose this woman’s mind, curious what might have led her to a life where Stark is the best option. Across from Wanda is Natasha, the measured, calculating stare no different than the last time they met, but this time the woman’s mouth appears stuck in a perennial, wily smirk. Next to her is Clint, the only guest that is here based on Wanda’s own recommendation, a séance always easier when she can shift her focus to a mind she knows is friendly in the rare instance she dips too deeply into more precarious and tempestuous thoughts. The last person at the table, James Rhodes, is the most disarming, a man with skin darker than anyone she’s ever encountered. From her understanding, those who look like him are treated as less human, and some are even held captive in the Southern states. She has heard the stories being told along the streets, whispers of revolutions and a secret railroad, though how someone could hide the large, boisterous rail cars is beyond her comprehension. What is most surprising about this man is not his skin, but his military uniform*, crisp and clean, well-cared for and yet she can see the signs of wear. Hand-me-downs were quite common of her wardrobe as a child, so she knows firsthand that there is no way to hide the marring of re-stitched holes and patched together fabrics. A smile parts his lips and she averts her eyes, not wanting him to misinterpret her staring.

“Please,” Wanda refocuses, fingers untangling as she spreads her arms to the side, palms facing up, “take the hands of the people next to you.” Maintaining an air of calm and confidence is key to a successful séance and so Wanda has to force her body not to recoil at the touch of Stark’s hand against her own. Her mind orders her fingers to curl over this hand, hold it firmly but not too tight as to cause pain or betray the tenuous thread of control she has over the scarlet energy buzzing through her body. “My only request of everyone here tonight,” her eyes methodically move from one face to the next, maintaining eye contact for a designated two seconds before moving on, using this moment of connection to push ever so softly against each person’s mind to gauge their general suggestibility, “is that you maintain an open, curious mind and remain calm.”

Stark scoffs at her side but she refuses to acknowledge it, instead tilting her head towards Clint as he speaks. “So any chance of a spirit getting feisty with us?”

A mixture of genuine and forced laughter follows his comment, gazes shifting around the table in what Wanda has come to identify as the first phase of a successful séance, a sense of apprehensive inquisitiveness, which is particularly strong in groups that, in general, do not agree with the movement but want to base their opinion on experience. This, she smiles slightly, is a promising sign. “It is possible, though I have never seen nor heard of any violent physical manifestations occurring.”

Clint nods, shifting in his seat, which causes a domino effect on the hands he’s holding, both Natasha and the soldier leaning towards him in compensation. “Good to know.”

“The first stage of this process is to find a willing guide from the realm of spirits.” The Fox Sisters encourage the use of a consistent spirit guide tied only to the medium. This ensures that no one can question the veracity of the guide’s existence. But Wanda firmly believes it is far more convincing to invoke a guide from the memory of someone around the table, to personalize it so there can be no gossip amongst parties about how they have all had the same guide. “Please close your eyes and think of someone you have lost, a caring soul, someone who would be willing to help us this evening.”

She waits until everyone has closed their eyes (Stark second to last, only being beat by Natasha who sends Wanda a long, skeptical stare before following the directions) to follow-suit, her own mind growing quiet as she extends her powers. Because Stark is her primary target, she does not test his mind at this point, the person who provides the guide is never the one she uses for the actual séance, not wishing to pry too deeply into one mind.  
  
First she reaches out to Miss Potts, sorting through the thick layers of unease and dubiousness in order to locate a face or a name. There are some half-crafted thoughts, the people fading in and out too quickly for Wanda to gather enough detail to be convincing. So she leaves the woman’s memories, traveling towards Natasha whose mind is an impressively constructed fortress. Scarlet tendrils attempt to infiltrate the walls, seeking out weak points created by personal connections, emotional moments or deeply loved (and lost) companions. Yet the walls hold, which is not altogether surprising, a spy likely has far too much training, too much control to allow any iota of allegiance or fragility to be felt.  
  
Clint is next, his mind churning through face after face, keeping a brisk, nauseating pace. There are far too many to hone in on one, and even more so, far too much disgust brewing in his mind, a harrowing and confusing experience given the joviality and helpfulness of the family man. Wanda has to pull herself out to keep from collapsing at the overwhelming sensation of all those deaths, shoving down a brief flash of terror that her safety net is not nearly as safe as she had hoped.  
  
Hesitantly she reaches for the last mind, wary of finding a similar landscape as Clint’s, certain a soldier has seen more death than a blacksmith, but instead she finds order and a solitary, incredibly clear face. It is refreshing and she allows herself a moment to enjoy the stark contrast between this mind and the others, though it is not nearly as soothing as the butler’s mind. Wanda shakes her head, clearing the excess, unasked for comparison so she can delve deeper into Rhodes’ mind.

“Our guide is here.” The statement elicits the desired response, spikes of uncertainty rising from most of the people around the table, the tugging on her hands indicating that people are leaning in to listen for the rest. “He is in a dark uniform,” she cocks her head to the side, powers sweeping gently across his consciousness to encourage the man to hold the image, “on a ship.”

“Really Rhodes, we have to be guided by a sailor?”

Stark’s interruption chases the specter away, Rhodes’ mind growing busy with a response as he opens his eyes to stare at Tony. “At least our guide will have a sense of direction.”

Now Tony opens his eyes, a playful, infuriating smile forming on his mouth, “Oh, just like you sailed us in a circle the last time we went out. Great sense of direction there, sailor.”

“I’ll have you know the wind was being quite difficult.”

If she lets this continue the entire atmosphere will be lost, and once lost, her revenge will become impossible. Wanda tightens her grip on both of their hands, thickening her accent as she drops her voice into a threatening growl, “Please do not interrupt.” Unsurprisingly the only apology is from Rhodes, his mind instantly evening back out, but Stark still, reluctantly, complies, restoring the delicate ambiance of the evening. “Thank you.” Wanda pushes lightly back into the memory of the man on the boat, planting subtle suggestions to provide a name and a better image of the face. “Our guide is back, his name is Paul and he has agreed to help us.”

A friendly, “Hi Paul,” reaches her from across the table.

Typically she does not encourage any interaction between the guests and the spirits, the additional questions often muddling the memories she utilizes for the séance, causing them to become hazy and uncertain particularly when a question is asked for which the person doesn’t know the answer. Perhaps, however, building a rapport between the group at the table and this guide may add further legitimacy to the process, which might make the next part easier. “He says hello back, Clint.”

“So,” the next voice surprises her, the even, authoritative tone of Miss Potts filling the air over the table, “what is next?”

“Paul will serve as our liaison with another spirit.” Wanda breathes in, centering her powers in her chest as she steadies her nerves. A slow, carefully controlled breath out lays the foundation for what she has contemplated and dreamed about since she was ten. “In order to help him, it is best to draw upon your emotions, invoke the strongest memory you can.” She pauses, allowing the information to seep into their minds, waits until she can feel their thoughts shift, their own emotions beginning to bubble to the surface. At this point she would usually choose the most salient and easily accessible memory from the group, regardless of the specific emotion, but tonight she needs something in particular. “Spirits are more drawn to negative energy, they desire to know their deaths have lasting effects.” The air around them grows frigid as the few happy memories are transformed, fingers gripping hands tighter as thoughts collapse under the weight of loss. “Find within yourselves anger, or sadness.” Wanda opens her eyes to stare at Tony, whose lips are pursed and eyes are scrunched in concentration. A thud in the background briefly draws her attention, the lanky form of the butler appearing in the darkness, but she disregards it for the most part, allowing a brief wave of pleasure to race through her veins at the knowledge he will be here to witness the demolition of Stark. She turns once more to Tony, voice low and even as she makes her final suggestion. “Perhaps a time of immense guilt.”

Wanda removes her powers from all other minds, coalescing the five free strands with the one she has connected to Stark’s mind. The frenzied, lightning pace of his contemplation slows, a weight forming in his stomach, a sense of gravity that affects her body as well, limbs growing heavier as a flicker of light fills his mind. “There is a fire.” The comment ignites his memory, flames growing, searing away all other wavering thoughts and faces, but while his extraneous thoughts dissipate, her own threaten the strength of their connection. When the factory exploded, when her parents were consumed by inferno, the flames were so monstrous the fire brigade simply watched, awe-stricken and horrified. They only stepped in once it was deemed manageable, but by that point there were no survivors. Wanda takes these images, lassos them with a tendril of scarlet and slowly passes them through the link. “Paul is approaching the fire, it,” she pauses as the last of her suggestion nestles into Tony’s mind, “appears to be a factory.” Contrary to the plan, his guilt fades, numbing him into a state of confusion. Her lips fall at the change, fingers itching to let go of his hand and direct her powers, but she cannot do that, has to instead calm her own tertiary memory and instead bring back his guilt. “No, my apologies, Paul has informed me it is not a factory.”  
  
This sparks the image back to life, the flames brightening as she mentally steps into his memory, taking in the assorted scraps of metal hanging in the room, several wooden tables (or at least were once wooden tables but are now kindling ) spilling over with charred papers and wires. Wanda slowly pries his memory, inserts herself snugly into his perspective. “It is a room, filled with tables and machines,” the room clarifies around her, lips tilting up in a moment of victory, “yes, it is a laboratory, perhaps one owned by an inventor.”  
  
Tony’s mind erupts in renewed guilt, almost shutting her out and it is the first time she has ever worried if someone can feel her intrusion and figured out the trickery of her technique. The Fox Sisters do intense background research, use glow paint and sheets to create spirits, wires up their sleeves to rock the table while holding hands, and tins tied between their thighs to make the “spirit” answer simple yes or no questions. Not Wanda, she actually brings the spirit to life. Tony breaks the intense concentration around the room with a gruff, “Great.” Then his voice grows sardonic, if their eyes were open in a typical conversation she knows he would be exaggerating his features, raising his eyebrows and winking to cement the insanity of the comment, “Let’s talk to this spirit.”  
  
“This,” Wanda draws out the word, thickening her accent as she builds the tension, head cocking to the side to patrol the memory, find where the guilt emanates, who he is thinking about. “This is not the spirit, this man is still alive.” The confirmation bathes Tony with dread, a satisfying experience for Wanda as she waits, coaxing his mind to move forward in time, the memory frozen on a moment of laying sprawled on the ground staring around at the growing flames. Then it happens, the door opens and there is a shaky _Hello _that echoes through the room. “Paul is directing me towards the door,” thankfully Tony’s mind follows, the memory swinging until she can make out the ajar door and a tall, masculine figure outlined by the light of the hallway and the ever-growing brightness of the fire. “There is another man,” a nudge of scarlet against Tony’s thoughts attempts to get him to resolve the blurriness of the man’s features, but the smoke is too heavy and his terror is too much, she is not even sure if Tony saw the man in any detail that night. But that doesn’t matter, his guilt intensifying as she feeds his memory, forces him to face the nauseating reality of the situation. “This man is our spirit.” There is a brief flutter of bewilderment, but Wanda wraps it in scarlet and tears it from Tony, instead sending even pulses of power into his mind, whispering to him that whatever happens next is solely and unquestionably his fault. “Would someone please release Paul from his role as our guide? I must focus on connecting with our spirit.”__  
  
Silence greets her request, the air tense but interrupted by small ripples of unease as people turn heads to determine if someone else is going to take on the task. A tiny, slightly defeated sigh precedes Rhodes’, “Paul, you have, um completed your job, um, quite admirably. At ease, sailor.”  
  
Wanda nods, attempting to recall the words she heard the sailors use when she was on the boat to the United States. “He says - Aye aye.” This seems the appropriate response, Rhodes’ grip loosening as he settles back into his seat, a nervous anticipation now forming in the fidgeting of his fingers. “I am connecting with our spirit.” Which is a lie, her grip remaining staunchly on Tony, directing him to continue the memory, show her what it is that plagues his mind, what she can use to commence his ruination. “Hello?” Tony’ latches to her hand, mind flaring as she speaks along with the memory. “Hello, is anyone here?” What Wanda does next is different from her usual séance, never willing to move beyond the memory to any sort of supposition of intent or feelings, but there is no other way to accomplish her precise goal. “He is petrified, the flames are so bright, so hot, he wonders if he is in hell.” Subtlety is difficult to use when wrapped so completely around someone’s mind but the lack of finesse doesn’t seem to hamper the effect of her words, the man to her right tenses, inhaling and refusing to release his breath until she speaks again. “He steps forward,” she pauses, the bursts of concern radiating from the minds around the table are clear without actually utilizing her powers and she has to temper this distraction, needing her full focus on Stark. “He asks ‘Are you hurt?,’” the spirit’s voice is impressively calm given the chaos of his surroundings. Wanda can feel her neck muscles constricting and then releasing as her head moves along with Stark’s unspoken response to the question. Then the man bends down, face obstructed by the thickening smoke and the slow, heavy blinks of Stark’s eyes. Wanda is about to push Stark to reveal the spirit’s name, assuming he knows it, but fails to garner the information, the memory continuing despite her own attempts to slow it down. So she follows it, not wanting to diminish Tony’s guilt, an ever growing weight his chest that slows both his breathing and her own, and so resumes her narration, “He is lifting the inventor, pulling him to his feet and now they are moving from the room.” Wanda tilts her head to the side, watches the slow walk of the men, can almost feel the arm of the spirit around her waist, guiding her through the destruction. “The fire is not just in the laboratory,” the hallway is aflame as well, the paper on the wall peeling and dripping. The carpet covering the wooden floors is a hellish pond, and yet the spirit does not stop, never hesitates to stamp out the fire and continue on their journey to the door. “Our spirit has saved the inventor.”  
  
“Thank God.” This is Clint, an exhale of relief at the news despite the fact he seems to be disregarding the information that their spirit does not have such an opportune fate. Which is precisely why she can feel Tony’s muscles tense at the comment and why she refuses to remove herself from his mind.  
  
Then the memory grows hazy, Tony reaching the point of recollection where details are less certain, his breathing labored, his body, that night, about to give up. But she does hear his voice in the memory. “The inventor is speaking he is saying…” the words are difficult to discern, a whisper cut by rattling coughs, his lungs labored as they attempt to expel the smoke. “The reactor,” Wanda feels her own body tense, animosity brewing at the request she knows is coming, at the inhumane audacity of Stark to put his work above this man’s life. No wonder he feels guilt. “It’s,” Wanda follows the break in the sentence, pausing before finishing, “still inside.” What might be more infuriating, more counterfactual to what her own instincts would have been in the moment, is the fact the spirit responds almost immediately. Wanda hesitates as she mimics the response, confused and angry at this man for agreeing to his fate. “Where is it?”  
  
Someone gasps, an explosion of sorrow that no doubt is accompanied by tears, but Wanda cannot stop now, has to keep her powers with Stark and make him relive this memory to the very end. “Our spirit is going back inside, but he refuses to allow me to follow. He is concerned for our safety.” A blatant lie, but if she attempts to describe the journey and gets a detail wrong, then Stark will have enough proof that this whole experience is a farce and he will never accept his guilt for this man’s life and most definitely not for the lives of her family. Luckily the memory is almost over, not long after the man runs back inside there is an explosion, a cloud almost identical to the one from her childhood, and a portion of the house collapses. Wanda finds herself gasping, the pain from Tony’s mind too much to bear, her eyes pricking with drops of despair at the image of the house crumbling. “The house, it’s collapsing.” The memory ends here, there is nothing more, Tony either cutting her off in the present day or perhaps losing consciousness from inhalation of the fumes in the past. Yet she is not done quite yet, because spirits do not fade with memories, they always live on, their effects felt in every waking moment and even in sleep. Death is inevitable and its guilt is inescapable. “Our spirit is returning, he has one last message before he leaves.”  
  
The pause she allows looms above the table, growing thicker with the continued silence, every single person around the table anxious for the resolution. Wanda breathes in, centering her powers so that she can convey the entire meaning of her conclusion into the link she has with Stark’s mind, her voice growing harsher to emphasize certain words. “He says that he would be alive if not for you, that he has never and will never forgive you. That it should have been you instead of him.” Wanda lifts a finger from Rhodes’ hand and swipes it to the side, moving the air in an audible wave as she extinguishes all of the candles at once, a dramatic move she has not had the satisfaction of using for several month as most of her séances are cut short by a trip to the river. “He is gone.”  
  
Only now does Wanda remove herself from Tony’s mind, opening her eyes as she sends a whip of scarlet to a gaslamp on the wall, turns it up so that the room is bathed in a soft glow as everyone opens their eyes and release hands. Most faces are sorrowful, confused and upset by the turn of events. But then Clint smiles, hand hitting the table in excitement, “That was amazing!” His words are echoed by Rhodes, Natasha allowing a tiny, amused smile as she glances at the blacksmith.  
  
“How,” Tony’s voice is tiny, barely a whisper but the tone catches her attention, their eyes meeting and she cannot parse out the most salient emotion -- whether it is guilt, terror, or a surprising level of anger. The man shakes his head at her, mouth falling into a deep, wrinkled frown. “How could you?” Immediately her stomach drops, this is not the desired reaction, but he doesn’t elaborate, refusing to acknowledge her anymore, instead turning his head away. She follows his gaze to the ashen, wide-eyed reaction of the butler. Vision had been so silent she had forgotten he was in the room, but she cannot dwell on his face or even brush his mind because he backs away almost immediately, shoulders caving inwards, drawing his body in as tightly as possible before he stumbles through the doorway. Wanda stands at the same moment as Tony, watches in confusion as Stark glares at her before excusing himself from the table, walking briskly to follow the butler through the door.  
  
She allows a small break between Tony leaving the table and her own hesitant steps in the direction of the kitchen. There is no reason for her heart to be racing like this, a beat that should be joyous from her success but is instead a terrified patter, her palms sweaty, concern at the pained expression on the butler’s face wrapping around her chest and causing her breathing to shorten. She makes it a quarter of the way through the room before she is intercepted. “That was impressive,” Natasha is smiling at her, not an impressed smile but one laced with a satisfied knowledge of confirmation. It is far sharper and more dangerous than any smirk she has encountered.  
  
Wanda attempts to side step the spy with a curt, “Thank you,” but the woman anticipates the move, matching Wanda’s steps in order to block her.  
  
Realizing she’s trapped, Wanda ceases her attempts at escape, the smile on Natasha’s face crawling higher, a malevolence to it that causes Wanda to step back in concern. Natasha closes the distance, placing a hand on Wanda’s arm in what would appear from the outside to be a congenial manner, but the threat is quite clear. “I never thought I’d find the Scarlet Witch.”  
  
All at once nothing else matters, the world around them collapsing into an infinitesimal ball that includes just the two of them and the words hanging in the air. Wanda had left Sokovia to escape her past, hoped that an entire ocean would eliminate the nightmares and the memories of what she’d done, and yet, no matter how far she runs, it never stops pursuing her. “I-” The world expands around them, a loud crash and anguished yelp echoing from the direction of the kitchen. Natasha glances away and Wanda uses this moment to escape, fingers lifting her skirt to allow freer movement of her feet as she rushes towards the commotion.  
  
Wanda’s body comes to a halt once she shoves the door open, eyes trailing along the concerned hunch of Stark’s back as he bends over a body sprawled on the ground, Vision’s long limbs thrown out erratically as if the fall caught both men by surprise. “What-“  
  
The sentence never makes it past the first word, firm hands pressing into her back and guiding her authoritatively out of the doorway as Miss Potts sweeps in, the energy around her buzzing with hurried nerves and yet the cadence of her words is eerily calm. “Is he okay?”  
  
“Does he look-“ Anger fills the syllables until the man realizes who he’s talking to and then Tony slams his lips shut, face falling towards the ground long enough for a centering inhale. When he resumes eye contact his mind is brimming with guilt so concentrated Wanda’s powers are unnecessary and there are droplets of self-focused rage growing at the corners of his eyes. It is exactly what she wants to see and yet, oddly, there is no victory in the display. “No, he’s not.”  
  
The woman gathers the pale blue fabric of her skirt in her hands as she steps towards the two men, squatting low until she is even with Tony, her voice still quiet and steady. “What can I do?”  
  
Tony breathes out, lips vibrating as he pushes out the last of his worry. “I need help carrying him.” The sound of conversation travels down the hall, Clint’s voice recognizably louder than the rest as he informs the other guests that something has to be wrong. Wanda instinctively moves towards the door, hands glowing as she prepares to hold it shut. “Pep, change of plans.” A wisp of scarlet inches towards the hinges as Wanda watches the woman place a reassuring hand on Stark’s shoulder, one that is pushed aside when Tony stands, hands drawing her up with him. If it was anyone else, Wanda would consider the scene touching, his hands cupping the woman’s face, brushing aside a strand of her cornsilk colored hair as he levels an intense yet adoring stare at her. “I need you to be the best damn socialite possible, channel every haughty, podsnappery** imbecile you’ve ever met-”  
  
His uplifting speech is cut off by Pepper’s, “So you, basically?” and Wanda again wonders why someone like her is with a man like Stark.  
  
A small, proud smile courts his mouth as he matches her sardonic tone one that is usually coupled with a pantomimed knife to his chest. “Ouch, you have truly wounded me, my love.” The playfulness is short lived, a stern dip in his eyebrows emphasizing his request, “Please, just get these people out of my house.”  
  
“I’ll do my best.” Wanda glances away as the two kiss, rescinding her powers just before Pepper waltzes past her, chin raised in a convincing superiority as she walks out the door, immediately meeting the group with a “Would you look at the time.”  
  
Once she is gone, Tony resumes kneeling next to the butler, slowly easing his hands beneath the man’s shoulders before struggling to lift him. Wanda vacates her position at the door, instincts taking over as she rushes to the two men, mimicking Tony’s actions as she slides her hands along Vision’s back. “Where are we taking him?”  
  
It is only after she talks that Tony seems to recognize who is helping, a firm shake of his head mirroring the unhappy downward arc of his mouth, “No, no, no, no. You,” he removes a hand from Vision long enough to shoo her away, “leave as well.”  
  
“You said you can’t lift him alone.”  
  
A retort forms on his lips, face scrunched in an anger that lacks any sign of sarcasm or wit, one that is primal and terrifying, but then he grunts, channeling his frustration into the sound before shutting his eyes, mind calming enough for logical thought. “Fine, you can help me move him and then you leave. You’ve helped more than enough already.” The helped is emphasized just enough to make sure she understands he thinks she has done the exact opposite, but she shoves it aside for now, determining it’s in the best interest of the unconscious man if she doesn’t fight Stark right this instant. “What I’ve found most useful is to,” Tony shows her exactly what he wants her to do as he explains it, lifting Vision’s limp arm and then laying it across his own shoulders, “sort of cuddle him, you know, put most of the weight on your shoulders.”  
  
Wanda nods, bending her head so she can nestle herself against the butler’s ribcage, his long arm lying along her shoulder, hand limply hanging in the air. Instinctively she wraps her arm around the man’s waist, adjusting her grip to make room for Tony’s arm. “Now what?”  
  
“Bend your knees,” she follows his command, matching, as best she can, the angle and placement of Tony’s legs, “and now we lift.” Together they stand, the weight of the butler much more than she would expect from his lanky frame. “Good?”  
  
She tightens her arm around his waist, wedging her shoulder into his armpit to allow his weight to rest more firmly on her own body. “Yes.”  
  
“Let’s go.” The journey is slow, stuttering steps punctuated by Tony’s unoriginal observation every five minutes that, “You know, if you were taller this would be easier.” Wanda stays silent, utilizing all of her energy to maintain even steps, grimacing as her arms and legs grow tired, uncertain how far they have to go or how far they’ve even come. For a half second she considers glancing back but she fights the temptation, unsure she’d be able to keep going if she discovered they had gone only ten feet. It’s as they round the next corner, this new corridor one she recognizes from her second night here, that she allows one sigh of relief. The door to, what she had presumed that night and all but is confirmed now, Vision’s room is in sight. “Just a bit farther, you need a break?”  
  
Wanda shakes her head, quickly realizing that Stark can’t see her past the butler’s unconscious body, “No.”  
  
When they reach the room, Stark shifts more of Vision’s weight onto her shoulders, just long enough to open the door, hand reaching inside to pat along the wall, a triumphant, “Aha!” happening in time with the pale light of a gaslamp filling the space. Tony enters first, rotating his body, and in effect Wanda’s as well, sideways so they can ease the man through the door. Slowly they amble over to a bed, one far nicer than would be expected in servant’s quarters, but the carefulness with which the sheets are laid on the mattress, pillow placed in the most appealing position to make the whole set-up inviting, is not surprising, given the care she’s seen Vision show towards everything else. It’s a shame then that they plop him down so haphazardly, ruffling the sheets and knocking the pillow to the ground, Tony cursing as he retrieves it and then wedges it under the man’s head before moving to swing the man’s long legs the rest of the way onto the mattress. Wanda watches as Tony sits on the edge of the bed, hand falling gently on the butler’s chest, rising and falling with his terrifyingly weak breaths . Though she understands there should be some urgency to their situation, resting also sounds appealing, the muscles in her legs trembling and threatening to give out from carrying him across the manor. The search for relief is wonderfully short, an unassuming wooden chair tucked under the desk next to the bed.  
  
The slightly fastened breaths from her lungs mingle with the deep, steadying gasps from Tony, both of which mute the shallow, raspy sound from the butler. Their harmony is thrown off by a sigh from Tony, signaling the end of their respite, his hands lifting to rub tiredly at his eyes before pointing in Wanda’s general direction. “There are scissors in the top left drawer, um,” he pinches the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes, “back corner, right side, in a box. Grab them for me.”  
  
She turns towards the desk, opening the drawer and sorting through the contents -- mainly pens and ink, some loose pieces of paper, and bundles of matches -- until she feels a long box that she curls her hand around and pulls from the dark abyss of the drawer. Her fingers run along the edge of the box, a simple wooden structure with no decoration, and lifts the lid, finding the sturdy metal scissors as promised. “Why do you need these?”  
  
An explanation is not readily given, Tony grabbing the scissors from her hand, placing them on the windowsill, and then standing from the bed. She watches as he opens a closet in the corner of the room, listens as he grunts while dragging a complicated looking machine across the floor, flimsy tubes flopping along the ground as he slides it next to the bed. A small lever on the front turns it on, an eerie, bright glow emanating from a blue crystal embedded in the machine. Wanda can’t tear her eyes from it, recognizing the Arc from the manual they were given after their experiments, an image shown to them over and over and over again, their instructions clear on how to handle its raw, unstable energy. A chill overtakes her body, lungs shuddering as her entire past crashes all too suddenly with the present, an overwhelming amalgamation of the divergent strands of her life that leaves her lost in deciding which part of her life holds precedent for handling this situation. “What,” her tone hardens, needing, demanding answers, “is that?”  
  
“That,” Tony pats the machine, lips momentarily curving up into a fond smile, “is going to save his life.” The information befuddles her, the words buzzing in her mind as she attempts to rectify her own knowledge of the object with what he’s just said. It never was presented as a life-saving intervention, only a source of untamable and dangerous power, one Stark, in particular, should never be allowed to handle. “I’m sorry,” Wanda opens her mouth to respond, unsure why she's receiving an apology, but then she tightens her lips into a thin line upon seeing Tony standing over the butler, scissors held at the bottom of the man’s shirt. Stark’s eyes do not leave the man’s face, a sadness creeping into his voice the longer he stares at Vision, “I know this is your favorite suit, but don’t worry, I’ll buy you a new one," he pauses with a shrug, "I'll buy you ten, actually."  
  
“What-” the question falls away, her eyes following the choppy journey of the scissors as Stark cuts up the middle of the wrinkled button-up shirt, once he reaches the top he resets the angle of the scissors and first cuts along the right shoulder of the jacket then down the arm, his free hand shoving the ruined fabric away so he can follow the same path, only in reverse, for the shirt. He repeats this on the other side, the man's clothing eventually separated into three pieces. “Why are you-” again her voice stops as Tony lifts the destroyed clothes away. The first place she looks is Vision's wrist, recalling the way he flinched from her, covered himself in fear of her reaction. She knew, from that night, that Vision’s body was scarred, a deep, undeniable pain staying with him from a time he was unwilling to share, but in all her rumination, in every possible explanation for the cold, hard feel of his wrist she conjured in her mind, she never would have imagined this.  
  
The tears are instantaneous and unwelcome, blurring her view but not enough to mask the truth he was hiding, his discolored and scarred flesh intercut with rods of shiny, polished metal, starting at the cuffs screwed into his wrists and climbing up to his elbow where there is a reinforced hinge connecting the piece of metal from his forearm to the one embedded along the side of his bicep. This meets a plate reaching from one shoulder to the other, dipping at his sternum to form a V and held firmly in place by chunky, tarnished rivets. As she focuses on that dip she first notes the fact that the skin just above it is what she’d spied that night in the light of the hallway, the same pang of sorrow filling her chest now as it did then, only amplified a hundredfold at the full extent of his injury . Then she allows her gaze to move on, following the dual pathways of metal weaving in and out of his chest, a path of reddened and marred skin creating a stark contrast to the almost hypnotizing gleam of the two plates traversing the entirety of his ribcage. There is more than just this, the light of the lamp glinting off metal that continues down below the waistband of his pants and other pathways that seem to form a cage around his sides,wrapping around him to indicate the pattern continues on his back, but a calm, authoritative voice forces her to tear her eyes away, “I need you to help me now.”  
  
Wanda nods her head, hands wiping the water from her eyes, her mind shutting down all secondary and tertiary sources of information, including her own emotional response, allowing her to focus on whatever help she can provide. “Yes?”  
  
“Middle drawer, left side, second compartment,” she follows his directions, brows knitting as she holds a thick leather strap up between them, “perfect. Bring it over.” Wanda shuffles to the bed, standing uneasily with the leather in her hands as Stark bends to fiddle with three canisters in the back of the machine, his fingers then trailing along one of the tubes, pinching the flexible material before inserting a needle in the tip of the tube. “It’s pretty fancy, right?”  
  
Stark holds the tube up for her to inspect, a low hum coming from the machine, pulsing in time with the inflation and then deflation of the malleable material. “I don’t even know what this is.”  
  
“Oh,” he lifts it closer to his face, “I don’t really either, well,” the tube waves limply in his hand, “this at least, some fancy invention from a colleague in Seoul. The machine is ours.” The tone and the nod of his head towards the man on the bed implies they created this together, yet she considers this just another embellishment common of Stark’s character. “But,” he lowers himself to sit on the empty mattress next to Vision, “that's not important. I need you to put that,” he points to the leather still in her hands, “in his mouth, between the teeth.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The teeth,” Tony opens his mouth, chomping his teeth several times in emphasis, “between them.”  
  
The request is odd, but no more odd than reading minds or having a body constructed partially of metal, this day, she reasons, might even foolishly hope, not actually existing and all a terrible nightmare. Carefully she sits on the edge of the bed near his head, hand shaking as she pushes her skirt away from Vision’s face, the tremors only worsening as she reaches out and places her hand to his cheek. His skin is feverish, a sickly dampness that arouses a sense of urgency she had lost upon reaching the room, Tony’s explanation of the machine finally fully sinking into her consciousness. He is dying. Wanda slides her stare to Stark, assessing where his attention lies, and once she knows it is not on her, she conjures a cloud of scarlet along Vision’s jaw, easing his mouth open wide enough for her to slip the leather in between his teeth. Once it’s in place, she allows her hand to linger on his jaw, thumb making small, soothing circles on his skin as she stares at him, attempting to channel a sense of comfort through her powers into his mind, though she’s unsure if the unconscious register such things, but it cannot cause him more harm, at the very least. Regardless of who this man associates with or his questionably placed trust, he has only ever been kind to her and she hopes, in this moment, she can at least repay the favor. “He’s ready.”  
  
“Perfect.” Intrigue is to blame for her eyes leaving Vision’s face, drawn to the movement of Tony’s hands as he straightens the man’s arm, fingers tapping the inside of his elbow, searching for something, though Wanda has no guess as to what. A few more taps and then his finger remains in the middle of the indentation, only a short distance away from the hinge on the outside of Vision’s elbow. Then Tony brings the needle up, breathes out, and inserts the thin tip into the butler’s arm. The entire process repeats on the other side, an exhausted, almost apologetic sigh of relief falling from the lips of her unanticipated companion for the evening as he bends to flip another switch on the machine, sitting back as a low rumble emits from the contraption. Yet the peaceful air of relief doesn’t last, transitioning swiftly into a harsh, bitter, accusatory whisper, “How did this happen?”  
  
“I don’t know.” Instantly her tone matches his, her response laced with hardened honesty meant to deflect the accusation back to the person that she assumes is actually to blame.  
  
Tony sits up, back straight and eyes narrowed as he takes in her words, “Now you’re too pigeon-livered***?”  
  
The condemnation confounds her, uncertain what she could have done to bring this about, the butler’s injuries clearly longstanding and established far before she ever met him at the river. So she slows her words, punctuating her innocence by clearly articulating every single syllable. “I have no idea.”  
  
This is the wrong answer, Stark’s face contorting in displeasure as he stands from the bed, feet pacing the room and his hands moving in sharp, direct motions. “Just like you had no idea what you were doing tonight?” Wanda walks back through the evening, every last detail clear as she sorts through her actions, nothing damning or indicative of foul play or causing whatever is happening to Vision. Her silence only stokes his ire. “Amazing,” his tone shifts into derision, hands never stopping as he talks. “So let’s walk through this, logically, okay?” He doesn’t wait for a response, lips tight and arms crossed as he proceeds. “All of this was meant to hurt me, right?”  
  
The words erase the last thirty minutes, send her back to the séance and the table, the guilt she fed so carefully into his mind and the realization he had no response to the memory of ruining her life. Suddenly her view is narrowed, concerns falling away as she stares at him, arms still crossed and eyebrows raised in anticipation. Wherever the next part of her life takes her, it all hinges on destroying Tony Stark so why, she reasons, lie. “Yes.”  
  
Tony nods, a movement that is equal parts grimness and egotistical satisfaction, not helped at all by the way his facial hair enhances the slight amusement on his face. “And Pepper says I’m too self-absorbed to admit that no one wants to hurt me. So,” his steps grow more confident carrying him to a dresser against the wall where he leans, a cocky, well practiced casualness to the way he props his body up on his elbow, “enlighten me, what did I do to you?”  
  
The séance already determined that her loss is inconsequential to his life, not even a flicker of recognition when she mentioned the factory. But that doesn’t mean he cannot be forced to reckon with his egregious sins now. “My parents worked in your factory in Novi Grad.”  
  
The effect of her words is noticeable, the self-assured cockiness on his face tightening up into a cagey scowl, eyes flicking from side to side as he processes the information. His voice softens slightly, what she hopes is a glimmer of remorse threading itself through the words. “I’m guessing they were working the day the electromagnetic coil malfunctioned?”  
  
“Yes, I was ten.”  
  
“Well,” the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders lacks any sincerity, though his words are even more hollow, “I’m sorry.”  
  
An apology of convenience and apathy is not enough, her powers awakening in her body as his face settles back into a mask of overconfidence. “You took everything from me, from the people of Sokovia.”  
  
Stark pushes off of the dresser, hands traveling into the front pockets of his trousers, and gives her another half-hearted shrug and an indifferent click of his tongue. “Yeah, Sokovia isn’t a shining moment in my life, I’ll grant you that but hey,” he nods in her direction, the corners of his lips moving his expression from one common at confessional to the empty smile worn by the type of person who would, when coming across someone with a bone sticking out of their arm, only say _you know, it could be worse, your other arm could be broken as well _. “Look at you now, an entrepreneur of spiritualistic delights.”__  
  
Scarlet prickles under the surface of her arms at the callousness of his response, at how little guilt he harbors for his monstrous effect on her life. “You are a monster.”  
  
“Tell me something I don’t already know.” The smirk that held residence on his lips flips, a scowl tugging his goatee down as he walks towards where she’s sitting. “But guess what, you’re no better than me.”  
  
Wanda bristles at the comparison, every atom of her being denying his words, because she knows the impetus for her own misdeeds, can justify every action she took, every loaf of bread she stole, pocket she picked, every mind she infiltrated and it all falls back on this man. “I am not you.” Her fingers ball into fists to stop the wave of scarlet building in her palms. “The only life I will ever ruin is yours.”  
  
The scornful laugh he releases only provokes the undulating red trapped in her fists. “Well, at least I’m not delusional.” One by one her fingers begin to open, defiance coursing through her veins as she stands, shoulders squared towards him, her hands ready and waiting to unleash a storm. If Tony notices the thin line he walks between living and dying, he doesn’t show it, the conversation moving on without hesitation. ”For future reference, you went about my demise all wrong.”  
  
What she should do is destroy him now, release the energy from her hands and remove the pestilence that is Stark from the Earth, save humankind from his influence, yet she hesitates, the shallow yet even breaths of Vision next to her a reminder that if she did just that, she would be killing two people instead of one. So she rescinds the power, drawing it up through her arms so that it can fester in her chest, determining it best to amend her strategy to reconnaissance instead of attack. “How so?”  
  
The heel-toe pattern of his pace stops at her question, Stark pivoting his left foot to face her, a surprising stillness embracing his limbs as he watches her. “If you want to hurt me,” his voice grows louder as he speaks, finger jabbing at his sternum in time with each syllable, “You hurt me. You leave,” the finger directs her eyes to the blonde-haired, pale man on the bed, metal gleaming in the light of the lamp, tubes running from his arms, “him out of it.”  
  
The accusation is wrong, the butler never a piece in her game, far from it, the past day giving her time to rationalize why she ran upon hearing Stark owned the manor, why her first instinct was to flee instead of stay. It all came down to two reasons, the first was a desire to simply be done, to deny her demons any more leverage but the other, the one she has fought against admitting, attempted to explain away in various, unconvincing manners is that she knew if she removed Stark she might have to hurt Vision. “He was not part of my plan.”  
  
“Really?” The caustic drip of his anger erodes her own calm, fingernails digging into her palm to keep the scarlet trapped in her body. “Then how’d this happen?”  
  
“I-” Wanda hesitates, knuckles loosening as she unfurls her fist, attempting to understand how she should know the answer to this question.  
  
Stark carries on, ignoring her confused syllable, “He had a treatment before I left, each treatment,” his hands swoop in a hurried gesticulation, possibly trying to clarify the information but it only adds to her confusion, “lasts three months. It’s been three weeks. The only way for him to destabilize so fast is if he got utterly and completely soaking wet. Was it the damn swan again?”  
  
Her lips form the, “No,” before she’s processed the explanation.  
  
“Then what was it?”  
  
She’d seen him handle water, every day, from the pitcher at her door, to cleaning the dishes, fetching a pail of water for the horses, yet he was always so careful, either donning gloves or using complicated contraptions, such as Friday, a machine designed explicitly to handle the sloshing and scrubbing of laundry. But there was also the storm. “What,” Vision had begged her not to go out in the rain, “happens,” hesitated at the door after she ignored his logic and trudged into the tempest, “when he gets,” and yet he still came outside, “wet?”  
  
“What…” a hand unceremoniously points at the man on the bed, “this. Tremors and a fever, inability to breathe, mental shut down, unconsciousness, give it another hour and seizures join the soiree.”  
  
“Does he kno-”  
  
An irritated huff cuts her off, “Of course he knows. What,” Tony takes four steps, closing the distance between them, allowing her to see the dilation of his pupils and the quiver of his lips, “happened?”  
  
When they came back in from the rain, she had to abate the smug amusement threatening to manifest as a grin at the dour frown that overtook his face, the removal of his coat revealing a saturated dress shirt, one he plucked dejectedly with his fingers. She assumed he was simply upset at ruining his perfectly pressed shirt. Wanda breaks eye contact, gaze falling to study the crescent moon on her index finger. “He went into the storm.”  
  
Tony’s hands lift, forming uneven arcs as he flails his arms out to the side, “He went into the storm?” If she didn’t already hate the man standing in front of her, his patronizingly sarcastic voice would surely stir a seething disdain in her chest, “I’ll believe that once Pierce goes against slavery****.”  
  
“He was,” Wanda lifts her eyes, first glimpsing the man on the bed and then moving to Stark, “trying to convince me to come back inside.”  
  
The tempestuous atmosphere of the room settles into an eerie calm, the hairs on her arm sticking up at the sudden shift. “Get out of this room.” When she doesn’t move he repeats the command, “Get out.”  
  
Wanda shakes her head, firmly planting her feet on the wooden floors, a deep, unwavering need forming in her mind to absolve her name, show she didn’t intend for this to happen. “I didn’t know.”  
  
The phrase freezes his movements, but it does nothing for his anger, any joy or pleasure gone from what he would typically imbue with a smarmy wit. “Well that’s enough to make a stuffed bird laugh.”  
  
“It’s true.”  
  
“Sure,” Stark nods, lips pursed and nose scrunching in disbelief as he shrugs at the suggestion. “A conniving spiritualist, who wants to destroy me,” he brings his hands to his chest, “befriends my water-averse butler, gets invited into my manor, forces said butler into a storm, and then turns his generosity and foolish openness against me at a very dramatic séance. You really think I wouldn’t connect the dots?”  
  
The majority of the timeline sounds plausible, if that had, in fact, been her plan, but he’s wrong in every way possible. Yet her voice can barely maintain a whisper as she denies it again, “That’s not true.”  
  
Doleful, fed up eyes stare at her, Tony’s shoulders drooping in defeat, his hand shoving her out of the way so he can sit on the chair next to the bed. “I guess we’ll just have to ask him when he wakes up,” the indirect dismissal of her company is more potent now than the command earlier, and so she bunches the front of her skirt in her fists, lifting it slightly so she can move more comfortably through the room, and proceeds to the door. “Wanda,” her first name coming from this man is debasing, but she has to roll her anger into a compact box, shove it away until a better time, needing to escape his presence in order to regain her bearings. For a moment, she contemplates continuing her path out of the room, but determines to hear whatever is left to say, turning to face him once she reaches the door. “No one knew about him, about,” Tony pauses, a mournful exhale deflating his chest, “that night. Not even Pepper.” Their eyes meet and her heart stops at the tears bulging from the bottoms of his eyelids and the guilt radiating from his mind, stronger now than it was at the séance or at any point in their conversation. “I’m going to let you explain that to him once he wakes up.”  
  
Wanda shuts the door, walks eight steps down the hallway before his words engulf her mind, a ragged gasp stealing the air from her lungs as the realization of her deeds finally settle on her chest, a weight so heavy she has to lean against the wall to help her slide to the floor. The entire séance she was so focused on Tony’s own guilt, on rectifying her life that she never stopped to consider the familiarity of the spirit’s lilting British accent, proceeded with the memory despite the bewilderment on Tony’s face when she said the man was dead, and only now does she understand the ashen horror on the butler’s face before he stumbled from the room. Wanda’s hands shake as they travel up her face, fingers wrapping around the smooth beads of her headdress as she untangles it from her hair. Slowly she turns the intricate piece in her hands, one she crafted herself after her first séance as a way to garner more respect and stronger belief from her clients. It was meant to symbolize her freedom and independence, the ability to transfigure the misery that had shrouded her for so long into hope. Yet all it managed to do was firmly root her in her past, failing the directive to take down Stark, and instead, inadvertently destroying the life of the man with the kindest eyes she’d ever met. She had forgotten this feeling, allowed her anger to create a source of retrograde amnesia to the fact that the collateral of innocent lives has never been and will never be enough justification for the fleeting satisfaction of revenge. The headdress falls from her hands as a nauseating guilt stitches itself into her body, “Ja sam monstrum*****.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victorian language/culture decoder:  
> *Fun fact, the US navy, unlike the US army, had no restrictions for enlistment based on race during this time period. This is because they always had a shortage of sailors. The Army, on the other hand, allowed Blacks to serve in the army for the war of 1812 and then discharged them all until the start of the Civil War in 1862.  
> **Podsnappery:“wilful determination to ignore the objectionable or inconvenient, at the same time assuming airs of superior virtue and noble resignation.”  
> ***Pigeon-livered: meek, gentle, or cowardly  
> ****President Pierce was anti-abolitionist and believed trying to abolish slavery would corrupt American ideals. Fun fact, he’s considered by many to be the worst president in US history.  
> *****I am a monster. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Happy New Years!


	5. In which information is shared and life moves forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After he awakens, Wanda and Vision must come to an understanding about the seance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to include a couple of shout-outs at the beginning of this chapter. 
> 
> 1\. A huge, heart-felt thank you to thissweetmoment (https://thescarletvisionnetwork.tumblr.com/post/168934716473/an-auspice-of-scarlet-by-anonthenullifier-after) and lazy-stitch (http://lazy-stitch.tumblr.com/post/169290524097/anonthenullifier-since-you-said-you-were) for the wonderful pieces based on this story. 
> 
> 2\. To my beta, Anya, particularly for dealing with me on this chapter and the numerous drafts and emails I sent you about the damn scene that just never quite felt right. I hope the final version works well :D
> 
> Also, since the last chapter only had one, tiny conversation between Wanda and Vision, I am compensating with the longest chapter yet that is filled with numerous conscious interactions between the two. 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy!

The first day after the séance moves so slowly Wanda worries her actions may have broken time itself, a concern that is only intensified by the inevitably forced introspection. It is inconsequential if she is walking, sitting, stirring a pot of thrown together stew, or staring into the abyss of the darkened hallway leading to Vision’s room, her mind is overwhelmed by a menagerie of memories. The cycle spans the entirety of her life, a rapid churning that weaves together blissful recollections of running after Pietro, the half-hearted scolding of their mother never stopping their disastrous chase, and the way he’d grow giddy at outrunning her again with the harrowing reality of the reflection of light in the metal plates of Vision’s body. The subdued ecstasy of touching Vision’s hand, staring into the gentle cerulean of his fascinated eyes intertwining with Pietro’s hollowed, lifeless gaze and the way her scream echoed off the buildings. She recalls the curious excitement of the first time she connected with Pietro’s mind, the pure rush of affection that she used to anchor herself to the real world, but this contrasts with the nauseating drop of her stomach each time she harnessed her powers for less seemly deeds, the sickening clout that would fill her as she curled scarlet ropes around errant thoughts, rendering the mark cognitively useless. But more than anything she battles her own instinctual attempts to rationalize her behavior by using Stark’s utter disregard for others as a justification, instead forcing herself to reconcile with her conscience.  

Wanda understands she could leave the manor, these thoughts, and Stark behind, the pure, unmarred sunlight streaming through the crack in the curtains more than enough to guide her on the path to freedom. Yet she remains, even dutifully follows Stark’s edict that she can only occupy her room, the main room, and the kitchen. No matter where she resides, her powers always reach out for Vision, desperate to assess the weak, orderly waves of his unconscious mind. This serves to help ground her amidst the deadly quiet of the manor, the majority of the noises a result of her own movements and shuddering breaths, though occasionally there are the fleeting glimpses of Tony entering and then leaving the kitchen, his hands never occupied by the meals she pieced together, yet she can not bemoan him this or even muster a spark of anger. If someone vowed to destroy her, she too would wonder what extra, noxious ingredients might have been added.  
   
This listlessness continues the second day, her body taking up residence on the leather couch still pushed under the window, legs crossed and body angled to allow her an unobstructed view of the path to Vision. The only issue with her choice of vigil is that when the muscles in her neck inevitably grow tired and her eyes droop, she is forced to reckon with the debilitating embarrassment of the table, still cloaked in white, chairs in varied positions, and the candles askew, charred wicks frozen in place, perennially feeling her dramatic gust of scarlet that concluded the séance. She considers leaving the main room, inching her sentinel existence closer to where her mind resides, even gets as far as contemplating how Stark would react if he found her sitting in the hallway, but she tempers this desire, for the most part.

It’s when the sun sets and the manor is shrouded in darkness, that Wanda finds herself unable to control her mind, memories still streaming, flashing image after image of her life, a process she always presumed would happen when she was dying, yet, as has been the path of her existence, she cannot rely on such an easy escape for her heartbreak. Wanda heaves in a breath, fingertips congregating into steeples above her palms, the backs of her hands resting gently atop her knees, yet she cannot chase away the temptation chipping away at her resolve. At first it was simply a fleeting thought, but the longer she stares at the hallway, the more she attempts to squash the burning embarrassment of replaying for the hundredth time the look of abject horror on Vision’s face when she likened him to Friday or the resolute submission of his body in the rain, the harder it becomes to deny the rebellion clawing at her chest. Foolishly she reasons it won't hurt to test the waters, the crescent moon on her index finger rising as she extends the reach of her powers outwards just enough to determine Tony’s alertness. When she cannot feel the erratic and lively buzz of his attention, Wanda finds herself standing, legs wobbling at the scurry of prickles attacking her calves, and hesitating as she considers her next actions. The cogent decision is to sit back down, resume her unhealthy meditative trance, and yet her body refuses. Instead a flick of her wrists sends scarlet twining around her boots to muffle her footfalls as she climbs the stairs and traverses the blackened hallway, Stark seemingly incapable of refilling the gas lamps on the wall. With even greater care, she leans against the door, ear pressed to the unpolished wooden beams, breath evening out with each wave of fitful sleep lapping across Stark’s mind. A tentative and steady cloud of scarlet eases the door open, her body tensing as she waits to see if the small creak of the hinges (which would certainly not happen if Vision was awake and capable of oiling them into submission) stirs Tony from his slumber. When there are no stern words or volleyed threats, Wanda steps into the room, eyes adjusting quickly to the soft glow of the lamp on the butler’s desk.

The room is messier than before, clear signs that someone has been living in the quarters, yet her mouth descends into a morose frown at the knowledge this someone is not Vision, his mind slow, thoughts shallow yet blessedly even, and his body unmoving on the bed, only the tubes still running into his arms spasming with life as fluids flow into his arms. Ten achingly tedious steps bring her to the chair at his bedside. She knows this is dangerous, being in his room, the repercussions unfathomable if Stark were to wake up and find her like this, yet she can’t seem to obey the screaming logic from her mind, instead listening to the command of the furious pumping of her heart and the anchor of guilt that pulls her down into the chair, her hands folding anxiously in her lap.

Wanda’s lips part, a comforting, uneasy hello forming on her tongue, but she stops herself in time, her voice most certainly would rouse the man draped over the cot on the far side of the room. The greeting is transfigured into a silent heave, the air sucked back into her lungs before being let out in a soundless stream of apology, her thoughts racing as she attempts to decide what, precisely she is doing in the room. The first notion she settles on is reassurance, a convincing argument that she needed to see his chest rising and falling, hear the whispered breaths escaping his lungs, feel the warmth exude from his body to know he was alive. Yet this is hogwash, her powers a far more parsimonious source of tracking the difference between living and dying. Which brings her to the second notion, one that feels right though she is uncertain how to accomplish it. Whenever she was ill or injured, particularly the time when she attempted to race Pietro across the frozen river and ended up with a broken arm, there was always someone there for comfort. Vision presumably lacks this, Stark doubtfully providing anything more than an antsy, self-important aura. The idea is unfounded, yet it persists in her mind, her palm growing itchy with a need to feel useful, perhaps even more so, a usefulness that might start the process of atonement. One more sweep of the room with her powers provides her with a sense of safety, her hand reaching out, hovering just over the scarred skin of Vision’s hand, his muscles completely relaxed for the first time she’s seen, fingers curled slightly inward.

A wheezing startles her, hands lifting protectively in front of her chest as scarlet shimmers in the air, but then she eases back when the noise happens again, the source the odd machine humming away at the bedside. Wanda watches with interest as the valves of the contraption seem to function independently, the constant swish of fluid through the tubes stopping momentarily as something clicks in the back of the machine, then everything resumes as before, the only change a shift in the density of Vision’s thoughts, the tenuous link filling her with a terrifying sense of instability. Wanda scans the man, searching for some sign as to the change in his mental state, conflicted on whether she hopes this means he is rousing or if she would rather he not wake to see her face first. His body remains still, but his mind races, and she realizes she recognizes this feeling, an image of Pietro laying on his side, eyes shut, breath rapid and uncontrolled, mind screaming even though outwardly he appeared at peace . After the experiments his body couldn’t handle the changes, a litany of curses interspersing his description of feeling discombobulated, as if whatever made up his muscles couldn’t decide which direction to go in. The one time her brother truly gave up, when the pain was too much and his tears stained his cheeks as he whispered his apologies for not being stronger before passing out, Wanda gripped his hand, centered her own spasming thoughts around a solid, unshakeable sense of calm, and bathed him in scarlet. Whatever it was she did, seemed to work, his body and mind stabilizing.

Recklessly Wanda reaches out, grabs the man’s hand with both of her own, and lifts it just enough so that it touches her forehead as she bends down. “Please,” the words are silent, a plea she collects in her mind, wrapping it in layers of serenity, of hope, of regret, of redress, of a conviction that if she can sooth him now then she will finally drop all thoughts of retribution, turn her eyes solely to the future. Scarlet blossoms around their hands, seeps between her closed eyelids as she breathes in, holding the raging fire of her powers captive in her lungs until it is tamed, and then she breathes out, pushing every last spark of scarlet into this hand, sending with it the words she has wanted to tell him, was waiting to tell him when he awoke, but, if she fails, she wants to make sure he heard her at least once. “I never meant to hurt you.”

When the room is no longer dyed with red, she sits back, his hand still clasped between hers, and she can feel his mind settle, falling back to mimic the tranquility of his slumbering body. The relief filling her body causes a tiny smile, one she doesn’t want to fight and so she allows it brief residence on her lips before squeezing his hand in reassurance and standing. Scarlet streams from her body, creating a path along the floor for her to leave the room in silence, and she sleeps that night for three hours before the usual nightmares descend.

It’s early on the third day when there is a shift in the atmosphere of the manor, an excitement vibrating from Stark’s mind and then, much to her surprise, a new dizzying sensation of pain colliding with a whirlwind of confusion coming directly from Vision. Wanda’s body tenses on the couch, mind reeling at the very clear alertness and wakefulness of the butler. Her hands begin to tremble uncontrollably for yet another day, only this time it is more than the recoil of recollection, a surge of joy tumbling quickly into anticipatory rejection, certain if he actually wants to speak with her (something she highly doubts), that she will have to verbalize her actions, fight against overly rationalizing her motivations, and be candid because it is the only thing she has left to offer him.  
   
Seconds pass, then minutes, then an hour, the two minds upstairs still active, alive, and yet no sign or acknowledgment of her existence. Wanda allows twenty more minutes to pass before she determines idleness is ineffectual. The manor has not fared well in the days without the butler’s attention, the task of rectifying the regality of the manor something she herself views as insurmountable for one person, though Vision will, no doubt, disagree, but he is not downstairs, should not be worried about such things, and so she decides to be useful.     
   
Once Wanda returns from the closet she watched Vision enter and exit several times while shadowing him, she kneels on the ground, sleeves rolled up, and hair twisted into a tight, efficient bun. On the floor in front of her is a bowl of soapy water, fifteen candlesticks, a large horsehair brush, a smaller brush, two felt pads, three square rags, and a pair of gloves. Wanda is certain the water is correct, recalling the oddly thick gloves Vision wore for the demonstration, but she cannot determine the appropriate cleaning aid, her hands hovering over each one, flashes of recollection mixing together as she attempts to sort through what to use. Hesitantly she grabs the smaller brush with her right hand, her left gently lifting one of the impressive silver candlesticks. Wanda dips the tips of the bristles into the water, experimentally lifting it before shaking her head, a quiet, “No,” directing her to the next option.

The rag feels wrong the instant she grabs it, and so she drops it to the ground before pinching a square of felt between her fingers. Wanda stares at how the brown fabric looks against the posh candlestick, a familiarity in the contrast enough confirmation for her to move to the next step. Vision had instructed, quite vehemently, the appropriate direction of cleaning (a gamble between clockwise and counterclockwise, or perhaps it was vertical versus horizontal swipes) and he had emphasized something about either the top or bottom of the object, but Wanda cannot remember. The only visuals readily available to her are the way his eyes shone in amusement when a candlestick slipped from her grasp, causing a small tidal wave in the bowl, and the blush that threatened to bloom along her neck at the sincerity of his, “Well done,” after her first successful attempt. Neither of which is particularly useful right now.  Wanda shrugs, dipping the felt into the water and clenching her teeth as she lightly wipes the candlestick in a counterclockwise pattern. Nothing horrific occurs, the silver is even slightly shinier, and so her movements grow more confident.  

Wanda is four (mostly) gleaming candlesticks in when she hears a slamming door from upstairs followed by plodding, annoyed steps that eventually reveal an untidy Stark. The rate at which he descends the staircase, unhurried and calculated, certifies his displeasure, but what’s more telling is the coldness of his usually upbeat voice. “Wanda.”

The felt splashes into the mucky water, her other hand carefully placing the candlestick on the ground before she stands to face the man. “Tony,” she emphasizes both syllables, determined to challenge the power differential he’s trying to utilize against her, yet his face remains impassive, hands sliding into the safe haven of his front pockets.

“He’s awake.” The confirmation of the news awakens her heart, a rapid flutter ramming against her ribcage as she digests the realness of the words. “Just so we’re clear this is against my better judgment,” he frowns, eyes downturned to study the scuffed toes of his shoes, then releases an exasperated breath out and meets her eyes again, “but he wants to talk to you, alone.”

If the revelation of Vision being awake and presumably okay was an elixir to her morbid thoughts, the realization of what this conversation will require of her draws her back into the squalor of remorse. But she cannot expect penance if she avoids admitting her wrongs.  “Okay.” Wanda wipes her damp hands on her skirt, fingers tingling with the nervous undulation of her powers as her emotions run rampant. “I’ll speak with him.”

She can feel Stark’s eyes follow her as she approaches the stairs, his thoughts swirling just out of reach, but she dares not connect with his mind when they are this close, all desire to enter the frenzied network of his past gone. “Wanda.” Her journey comes to a halt on the first stair, hand resting on the circular top of the rail. “I’m going to be in the hallway. If you do anything to him-”

The threat is unneeded, though she doesn’t fault him with distrusting her, she’d react exactly the same. “You will contact the sheriff.”

“No,” the single syllable is drawn out with a haughty chuckle, “No, you get the Black Widow if something happens.” Whatever this means is insignificant in the face of the seriousness of his voice, one heavy enough to nail a coffin shut. “Understand?”

“Perfectly.”

The annoyance exuding from Stark falls away with each halting step in her ascent, but as his diminishes it is replaced by her own annoyance once she turns down the hallway, her heart pounding in an attempt to convince her to run, but she tightens her fists and continues to the room. The door is open, which means she doesn’t get a last chance to settle her nerves or force her expression into a carefully crafted mask of concern and confidence before their eyes meet. He is sitting up, not straight, a support system of a pillow leaning against a stack of books almost gives him a casual appearance, but the dark circles under his eyes, the uncharacteristically disheveled hair, and the loose, unironed nightgown betray his continued ailing. “You,” his polite voice startles her, her eyes dropping in discomfiture at staring at him for some, likely quite unsociable, amount of time, “may come in and have a seat.”

“I-,” whatever she planned to say flees, leaving her to mutely nod, feet carrying her the same ten steps as the night before, though this time she moves the chair, places it several inches farther from the bed, fairly sure he would appreciate some physical distance between them.  
   
Wanda had assumed he would lead the conversation, foolishly believed his butler ways of waiting for her to speak would be discarded in circumstances when status and position no longer matter. Truthfully a butler should die from the sheer impropriety of being in bed, in a nightgown, in front of a young, unattached woman. Yet he simply stares at her, face impassive beyond a small, pained bunching just above his nose. Wanda attempts a smile, but knows it fails, instead studying her fingers as they lace together in uncertainty, and when he still does not speak, she glances to her left to study the room in daylight. “You know,” her voice begins its journey long before her mind catches up, left hand rising to point at a small cup and a quaint, wooden toothbrush*, “I have not seen one of those since moving here. I,” the strength of her vocal chords wanes as she continues, “spent three months trying to find one before giving up.”

Vision’s eyes narrow as his head develops a small, curious tilt. “They do have truly barbaric views of dental hygiene**.” The dryness of the comment is comforting in its similarity to how he spoke with her prior to the séance, yet the absence of joviality is keenly felt. “I have a crate shipped in from London once a year. You are welcome to take some, if you like.”

“Thank you.”

The amount of things she’d like to say to him is immense, explanations and justifications, long histories of why she used his kindness in such a heinous way, careen through her mind, yet she can’t determine where to start. A simple apology seems far too empty, devoid of complexity and onus, and the last thing she wishes to do is harm him further with trivialities. Yet the idea of being truthful is petrifying, her heart caving in at the likelihood of his skepticism. “Miss Maximoff?” Her head snaps up, eyes meeting the eddy of disquiet in his gaze, and she can feel the air around them shift as he takes in a deep, steadying breath. “How-,” the word rushes out with his exhale and Vision breaks his stare, concentrating instead on the intertwining of his fingers atop the cream-colored blanket draped over his lap. The fact he is as unsettled as she is should lessen the fidgeting of her fingers or the shuffling of her boots along the wooden beams, but instead, it serves to increase her desire to leave, his presence, since she first met him at the river, has always been a source of comforting consistency devoid of anxiety, until now. “How did you know?”

Wanda dips her head at the question, her rumination over the past three days often came back to this, accepted he was going to ask it, because so would she, if their positions were reversed. The response has been practiced, refined, demolished, re-created, practiced some more, and cemented. Yet in the moment, the brilliant blue of his irises boring into her soul, she finds her mind shifting back into old habits of sidestepping uncomfortable truths in order to escape unscathed. Her heart disagrees with her mouth, but she cannot stop the faux playfulness imbuing her voice as she responds, “I commune with spirits.”

This expression is new for him, the droop of his eyes matching the downturn of his lips, accentuated by a soft, almost pained sigh prying itself free from his lungs. If she had to describe it, it might be disappointment. His response confirms her supposition, an invisible, albeit monstrous, boulder of guilt descending on her chest. “Please,” it is the same please he used when they were standing in the rain: confused, imploring, and achingly desperate, “I need to know.”

A sentiment she fully agrees with, but that does not make revealing the truth any easier nor does it alleviate the frustrating, and arguably startling, realization of how much she does not want him to think less of her, to doubt her. “You will not believe me.”

“Why not?”

Very few people, Wanda imagines, would readily accept the ability to read minds and move objects with a wave of a hand, but someone such as the butler - built of well-thought out, irrevocable logic - is most definitely in the section of the population that would never prescribe to such things. “You were not willing to believe in spirits.”

His hands calm long enough to lift into confused gesticulation, a tiny undercurrent of annoyance developing in his intonations, “To be fair you were not convening with spirits. Please, tell me.”

Despite his statement being true, the irritating reasoning only underlies her hesitation, “If you can’t even pretend to consider the existence of spirits then there is no way you will accept the truth.”

“Wanda,” her resolve is eradicated on the second syllable of her name, his conscious, deliberate breaking of her request a clear sign of the depth of his desperation. He could easily stop simply with her name and she would finally admit the truth, but he does not, instead continuing in a hushed manner, all irritation gone, replaced by a heavy, palpable sense of surrender. “Since you came to this manor, you have urged me, provoked me even, to cogitate on my own wants and independence, so I do not understand how you now suggest I am incapable of determining what I believe.”

Wanda remains mute as his words wash over her, eyes locked with his own, and she knows she cannot run anymore, but more importantly, she doesn’t want to. Her chin dips as she collects her thoughts, spying the glint of metal in the opening at the top of his shirt, and her decision is finalized. Calmly she lifts her chin, once more meeting his eyes, channels all of her energy into maintaining a calm visage despite the scarlet prickling in her closed fists. “I,” her voice stumbles, seizes up at the confession. Vision doesn’t push her though, face softening into encouragement which only creates confusion in her mind as to why he is the one comforting her. “I can read minds.”  
   
His “Oh,” is not quite disbelief, nor is it denial, instead it is an odd mixture of surprise, contemplation, curiosity, and (perhaps she is wrong in her perceptions), relief.  
   
Now that one half of her secret is out, Wanda finds herself revealing the rest, anxious to place all her truths between them at once. “I can also,” a demonstration is likely far more convincing than a statement, Wanda’s hand ascending, engulfed with her powers, as she sends a tendril of scarlet out to grab the toothbrush from the cup and hover it to the butler’s hands, “do that.”  
   
Vision reaches out for the toothbrush, one hand below it, swiping for hidden mechanisms or strings, while the other cautiously enters the cloud of red to grab the wooden handle. “This,” his eyes have not left the toothbrush, the bristles rising up into the air to point towards her as he talks, “means I was not hallucinating during the séance,” he pauses, glances out the window and then down to his arms which no longer have the tubes and needles attached, “unless I am still hallucinating.”  
   
This is not the reaction she suspected nor did she imagine her lips teasing into amusement at the wonder on his face. “You aren’t.”  
   
“I see.”  The stillness between them is not uncomfortable enough for her to shatter with further explanations, instead she sits back, allows him to process the information, and waits, anxiety slithering in her stomach, for his response. Eventually he wets his lips, hand falling back into his lap before he reasons through the information. “You always knew when I was at your door.” She tilts her head in assent. “You found me when I had not left instructions as to my location.” Another slow nod meets his words. “And your spirit,” Vision swallows, an elongated second between his words, “followed the perspective of Mr. Stark’s own memory of that evening.” On the last word the fingers of his left hand curl around his right wrist, the sleeves of the shirt inching up to expose the metal cuff embedded in his skin. “Your spirits are memories.”  
   
Wanda had underestimated how logic could be used to deduce her actions, how it could marry so well with the unbelievable truth of her powers, yet she still waits for this uneasy calm to fall away from the butler, certain that he will soon reason away from her apparent mysticism. “They are, they always have been.”  
   
His next words are slow, each one carefully chosen as he goes, creating a hesitant staccato, “Did you know it was me?”  
   
If Stark had apprised the butler of their conversation from that night, he either left out her admissions of ignorance or included it but with an overlay of incredulity. “No, Vision, I had no idea,” he refuses to look at her, even though she’s staring directly at him, attempting to will his face to turn up, see the utter, bare-faced honesty in her features, “If I had known, I wouldn’t have used it.”  
   
“But you still would have completed the séance with an equally horrific memory of his?” The complete absence of warmth from his voice sends a chill through her limbs.  
   
“Yes.” Now he watches her, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted in horror at the admission, all traces of the butler and his unwillingness to show emotion gone, which only amplifies the guilt clawing at her chest. “I wanted,” she amends this, determining that if she is going to be truthful then she has to go full tilt into honesty, “I needed to destroy him, to make him feel what he had done to me.” Wanda is now the one unwilling to meet his gaze, terrified what her unconscionable deeds have done to his face, whether they have hardened it into a statue of judgment or, far worse, drained all empathy, all kindness from his eyes. “The moment I saw his face, I was overcome by my desire for retribution.”  
   
His voice is gentle, not condoning per se, but it lacks the bite of admonishment she expected. “Would you do it again?”  
   
“No,” a firm shake of her head sends the tight knot of her hair wobbling, “I am done allowing Stark to dictate my life.” The reason for this lays reticent on the tip of her tongue, teetering back and forth as she weighs the utility of saying it, but then she feels a touch of warmth on the top of her hand, recognizes the source as she spies his arm retreat, fingers journeying back into his lap, and she looks up. There is a sheen to his eyes, a sorrow, but also a deep, abiding compassion that shouldn’t be there, her treatment of him, of Stark, of so many others in her life deplorable, yet he does not show any anger. That’s when her words finally reach a conclusion, eeking out of her lips with a strained breath as she fights the tears building in her eyes. “Vizh-” his name comes out half-finished, but she cannot force her mind backwards to complete it, words flowing out as a raging river, “I hurt you, and if I continue to be driven by revenge, I will undoubtedly hurt you again and you,” a shuddering breath in gives her a chance to slow the words, guide them so that the meaning is clear and undeniable, “of all people, you do not deserve to be treated like that.”  
   
Vision breaks the link between them, a hand running nervously through his untamed hair, finishing her thought even though he is wholly incorrect. “Because of my condition.”  
   
If he had not touched her before, had not established such an action as being acceptable, then she would never have had the bravery to reach out and grasp his hand, firmly holding it in place and not once flinching at the feel of the cold metal against the pads of her fingers. “Because you are kind and that,” her grip tightens momentarily around his hand, needing him to accept her words because his face is unconvinced, “is so rare in this world. I’m sorry for what I did.”  
   
She follows his eyes as he takes in her hand entangled with his own, hopes that he notices the beauty of how their skin differs,  her’s slightly darker,  but she’s certain, when she flicks her gaze to his face, notes the frown on his lips, that he is far more focused on the way the metal contrasts harshly against his pallid skin. “Thank you,” the removal of his hand from her own physically hurts, muscles aching to stay that way just a bit longer, “for your honesty. I,” a shy smile curves his mouth up as his eyes dart side to side, “have more I wish to discuss but, to be frank, Miss Maximoff-”  
   
“Wanda.”  
   
The smile fills out briefly, the skin around his eyes crinkling at her correction, “Wanda, I am very tired and would like some time to process all you have said.”  
   
Leaving this room is the furthest desire from her mind, but she cannot deny him his request, not now when their communication is tenuous, balancing on a minuscule thread that could either repair the friendship they had been building or create a long-lasting divide between them. So she acquiesces, a tight smile as she stands, “Thank you for listening to me.” Wanda steps away from the bed, pauses with her skirt clutched between her fingers, “sleep well, Vision.”  
   
“Thank you.”  
   
   
   
   
Wanda attempts to withstand the temptation to reach out for Vision’s mind and assess where he stands in his consideration of her information. In order to do so she busies herself in the manor, moving from the candlesticks to the plates, sweeping the floors, dusting the grates, feeding the chickens (which are quite assertive in their pecking of her skirt, bricky beasts indeed), but none of this can calm the worry twisting tighter in her abdomen. His reaction was far more subdued then she had feared, but now that she is removed from the situation, the lack of anger or even terror is unsettling. Those are emotions she has encountered and has developed methods for handling, a nonplussed, empathetic response puts her on edge. What she is firm on, however, is that she will not, no matter how strong the temptation, force him to speak with her until he is ready.  
   
Thankfully, for her own sanity, Stark finds her early the next morning, as she bustles around the kitchen, combining the last of the fresh vegetables with the eggs she cautiously retrieved that morning into a dish that resembles a meal slightly above the typical fare Wanda would eat. “Hope you made enough for everyone.”  
   
Wanda turns to find Stark leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and his vapid, emotionally devoid gigglemug***. “You are eating as well?”  
   
An indifferent shrug goes along with a dismissive sniff, “I’ll wait until Vision eats it, see what happens to him.” Wanda places the plate on the counter more firmly than intended, the thud loud as she glares at the man who quickly uncrosses his arms, hands raised in appeasement. “It was a joke.”  
   
“You are not nearly as humorous as you think.”  
   
The mock hurt on his face is more aggravating than the deathly glares he has been sending to her, and Wanda cannot help but be suspicious of this change in behavior. “I’ll have you know that my reputation for being a nanty narker**** is based on years of finely crafted eccentricity.” Finally his grin drops when she doesn’t bother expending energy to respond. “Listen, V and I have been talking this morning.” Wanda’s body comes to a standstill, hands frozen over the plates as her eyes strain to the right to study the man. “He insists you aren’t going to hurt him-”  
   
A flutter develops in her stomach at the implied decision Vision reached concerning her confession. “I won’t.”  
   
“Well I’m not convinced, but,” Tony runs a hand over his goatee, a movement that contains all the elements of a nervous tic, which is curious given his normal persona, “if I miss one more high society tea then I’m officially out of consideration for Pep so Vision,” his tone slides into annoyance, though whether it is at having to follow courtship procedures or what Vision told him, is unclear, “has assured me he will be fine if I leave him alone and that he trusts you can help him if he needs it.”  
   
The tension in her lips builds as she struggles not to smirk at Tony’s distaste for the idea and the increasingly crystallizing notion she will be speaking with Vision today. “I am happy to help him.”  
   
Stark continues without acknowledging her, “I sent a telegraph to Rhodes, he’ll be stopping by later to make sure Vision is still alive and then I’ll be back as soon as I can escape.”    
   
A man she’s never seen before steps up behind Stark, the well-tailored yet simple suit and the quiet, business-like stance immediately reminds her of Vision the first time they met, so she assumes this is another of Tony’s servants, though where he has been this whole time is unclear. “Mr. Stark.”  
   
Tony flinches at the voice, a satisfying image Wanda will keep locked away for moments where she needs to laugh, just because she is no longer bent on revenge does not mean she has to like Stark, “Happy, just as sneaky as ever I see.”  
   
The similarities with Vision stop, the man, Happy (apparently all butlers are required to have odd names), grinning broadly in pride. “Miss Potts is not appreciative of surprises, so I make sure to save them all for you.”  
   
“How very thoughtful.” The sheer amount of snark infused into three words means Stark has recovered, falling back into his usual self seamlessly. “Well,” he pivots on his heel to face her again, “I will be back. If you hurt him-”  
   
“The Black Widow.”  
   
With a long, serious stare and an exaggerated dip of his head, Stark leaves with the man. Once the echo of the heavy front door dissipates, Wanda arranges two plates on a tray and grips the handles as she walks through the manor.  Unlike the last time she came to see him, this time there is only a sliver of space allowing her to see into the room, so Wanda wraps the tray in scarlet, freeing up her hand to knock on the door. A polite “Come in,” encourages her to nudge her way inside and she is slightly astonished to see him standing at the desk, his nightshirt replaced with the clean, well kept lines of dress pants and a crisp white button down shirt. It is still a casual appearance, no waistcoat or jacket and, perhaps the most unusual aspect of the overall ensemble, his typical polished loafers have been replaced by black velvet house shoes.  
   
Regardless of the shock at how healthy he seems, particularly compared to the day before, Wanda feels a smile burgeoning on her lips merely at seeing him. “Good morning, Vision.”  
   
Instead of a greeting, his face is overtaken by awe, head tilting to the side as he stares at her, the intensity of the gaze forms the beginning heat of a blush under her cheeks. “That must be immensely useful.” The words are odd until she follows his eyes and discovers the tray shrouded in red, her hands free and hanging at her side.  
   
“Incredibly useful,” Wanda grabs the tray with both hands, extinguishing the scarlet. Although he seems unphased by it now, she cannot help but worry how long until her powers make him uncomfortable, how long until his intrigue collapses into fear and then into hatred, because it always happens. “I,” she disperses these concerns, presenting the tray to him with her thrown together meal, “made you breakfast, if you are hungry.”  
   
“I am quite ravenous, thank you.” Rather than do the expected, which is to either take his plate or sit down and allow her to pass it to him, Vision shuffles his hands along the desk, collecting several sheets of paper and then turning towards her with a half-raised smile. “I-,” the papers move with his thoughts, rising to point just over her shoulder, “have been confined to a bed for three days and was intending to spend my time on the,” the papers shake in emphasis, and she takes note of the persisting tremble of his arm, “balcony for fresh air. If you would care to join me?”  
   
The tentative tango of their conversation has at least reached the evidentiary threshold that both are amenable to speaking further, so Wanda determines a smile might be the best answer before turning and walking from the room. She traverses a quarter of the hallway towards the balcony and then stops to wait for him. His amble is calming and reassuring, no signs of the stuttering steps from before, the lines of his face are relaxed, no furrows of pain forming in his forehead, and his breathing is even. The only sign of his continued recovery comes when he sits down, a wince and sharp intake of breath when his weight shifts momentarily to his arms as he eases himself into the wicker chair. “Vision?”  
   
“I am fine,” a deep breath and raised hand further iterate his desire to handle whatever is occurring on his own, “Wanda.” Not quite convinced but unwilling to push him on the issue, Wanda takes the seat next to him. The last time they were on this balcony it was too dark to see anything beyond the small perimeter afforded by the gaslamp, now that it is daylight she allows herself a moment to study the surroundings. The balcony itself is small, well-kept (which is not a shock), and sparsely furnished, only two chairs, a footstool, and a table, suggesting it is, unlike the veranda and its numerous seating options, a location meant for intimacy and solitude. Briefly she wonders if he ever has guests out here or if the second chair is part of the code of etiquette. “This is my favorite view from the manor.” His comment directs her examination outwards, taking in a similar panorama as the veranda, with sloping, tree covered mountains, but from this angle there is also the pond and a small, meandering stream cutting across the emerald lawn. “In the autumn,” a subtle slide of her eyes to the side allows her to take in the peace on his face, a wistfulness perking the corners of his mouth into a youthful, carefree smile, “the mountains are variegated and it is truly breathtaking.” She longs to reach into his mind and peek at the image, feel the soothing familiarity and wonder she can glean from his face, and live the moment with him. “It,” Vision tears his eyes from the mountains, inspecting the scars covering his hands, and then proceeds, voice timid and yet his tone implies an invitation for questions as he shares his thought, “reminds me of before all of this.” It is unnecessary, his meaning clear, but he rolls the cuff of his shirt up enough to present a sliver of metal, an open and trusting motion Wanda appreciates deeply.  
   
“Vision-”  
   
The trance-like atmosphere of his comments fades with a friendly, forced smile as he picks up the fork for breakfast, an action she follows though her eyes remain on his face. “I am certain you have several questions for me,” the matter-of-fact, dissociative rhythm is meant, she presumes, to mask his nervousness, but the darting of his eyes and the extremely careful poking of his fork into the eggs is enough to demolish his attempt at impassivity.  
   
Wanda is confounded by the offer. He is correct, there are dozens of inquirious pathways she’s considered since the séance, but she never fathomed being permitted an unfettered opportunity to ask him, at least not this early. “I assumed you had more questions for me.”  
   
“Oh, I do.” This time his smile is smaller, but loosened by the genuineness of his admission. “But given the apparent peculiarity of our lives,” a very polite way to describe her powers and his industrial physique, “it seems considerate and more conducive to honesty to rotate between asking and answering.” Despite the numerous questions in her head, Wanda does not immediately ask him anything, preferring to cycle through all of the options and determine, as he did the day before, what the most pressing issue is and go from there. “Breakfast is delectable.”  
   
It requires several moments of staring at him before his words make sense, her mind far too focused on what she wants to know. “Oh, thank you.”  
   
“Did the chickens cause you any issues?”  
   
She flashes back to the sharp beaks and the distinct, ominous rushing sound of a coop full of wings flapping. “I believe my skirt has developed some new holes.”  
   
Vision shakes his head in empathy, “It is my anecdotally based conclusion,” the qualifier brings a smile to her lips, most people would be content to share information based on experience and yet he seems to view it as slightly distasteful, “that avians are bitter and indignant creatures.”  
   
Tony’s pointed comments from what feels like a lifetime ago rises to the forefront of her mind, “This have anything to do with swans?”  
   
Perhaps it is the relaxed environment, the slightly humid breeze blowing the tamed, though unstyled strands of his blonde hair, but he seems at ease, lips locked together as he attempts not to betray his good-natured embarrassment. “Is that the question you wish to ask me?”  
   
Momentarily, and foolishly, she almost says yes because this easiness of conversation, the spell of his carefree, very un-butler like banter is intoxicating, but, she also realizes it is a strategy to delay the inevitable. Perhaps, she hopes, at the very least, once they have traversed the darkened hallways of their pasts, they can return to this moment and start a future. “No.” The admission dampens the mood, but his continued stare and the nod of his head informs her he is ready for her actual question. She is torn about when to start in his life, whether she focuses on the fire and his injury, or if she gathers intel about who he was before. “How,” she stops, realizes she has a fairly firm knowledge of the how based on Tony’s memory, and amends the path of her sentence, “Did you know Tony, prior to the fire?” There was a sense the night of the séance, in Tony’s remembrance, of a genuine surprise at the presence of Vision in the inferno.  
   
“No.” She is about to probe for more, already feeling exhausted if he is going to respond in a simple yes-no dichotomy, but he doesn’t allow her to continue. “I was actually arriving for an interview.”  
   
“To be his butler?”  
   
A troubled expression dashes across his face as he bends his head, picks at the eggs, and takes a small bite as he formulates his words. It’s in this action that she understands his willingness to answer is not synonymous with his comfort in sharing his life. “No,” Wanda sits up straighter at this, “I,” he shoves the carrots around the plate, eyes never leaving the food, “was in consideration to be the head engineer of a new endeavor in Stark Industries concerned with harnessing electricity to more efficiently power the machinery in his factories.”  
   
She assumed, when he admitted to knowing what went wrong at the factory in Novi Grad, that it was only because of his status as Stark’s butler. “You were an engineer for Stark?”  
   
“Not yet, technically,” he finally looks at her, a rigidness developing in his movements that creates a need in her to reach out, sooth the disquiet of his past. “I was still attending the University of London,” a fact that raises at least five more questions, higher education usually reserved for the most privileged and yet this man has never shown any signs of that upbringing, his suits impeccable but his actions and treatment of others a far cry from people like Stark. He seems to sense this quandary, a shrug and tap of his fork to the plate, “I was on a scholarship with a sponsor, and I had been focused on improving the conductance that Mr. Henry had achieved with his redesign of the electromagnetic coil.”  
   
“Is that why Stark wanted you?”  
   
A confirmatory nod occurs in time with his explanation, “My interview was to inspect one of the coils he had extracted from his Brussels factory. He wanted me to identify the malfunction in the device.”  
   
Wanda‘s lungs squeeze shut, cutting her body off from air, at the same moment her heart drops at the sheer number of lives ruined by one small, seemingly safe device. Equally troubling is the sudden and startling realization that Stark almost died in the same method as her parents, a far more fitting end to his life than any other she could imagine. The next question is not meant to be angry, but she cannot stop the bitterness or the accusatory tone, because she knows, from the memory, Vision was not there from the start. “Why did you save him?”  
   
The butler’s face hardens, no doubt at the implication, but three calm breaths evens out the edges of despair on his forehead, replacing his negative affect with a confident, well reasoned response, “It took me over an hour to walk to his manor, the fire brigade was at least that far away and the fire was already quite fearsome when I arrived.” He waits until she meets his eyes, “I had no other option.”  
   
Immediately her mind answers with _you could have let him die_ but she can predict his response, has experienced Vision’s utter willingness to put his health last, and so such a retort would be futile other than for emotional catharsis. Wanda shoves the first thought away, retaining her resolve to not focus on Stark’s demise, and redirects the conversation by asking the same question she had during the séance. “Why did you go back inside?”  
   
The question had to be anticipated, just as she has a running log of all the things she expects him to ask once her turn is over, but he still removes his attention from her, becoming unnaturally fascinated with the half-eaten plate of food sitting on the table. “A week prior,” the explanation is halting, almost indecisive as if he is still attempting to rectify the decision he made with the consequences of it, “Mr. Stark had delivered an address at the University, he spoke,” a hitch in the smooth intonations of his voice catches her off guard, her fingers curling in pantomime of grabbing his hand as he pushes on, “he spoke of the legacy of his father. The last connection he had to him was the arc reactor.” Vision glances up at her, allows her to take in the clear touch of water at his eyelids and she almost insists he stop, but the redirection of the thought, the dip into a past she never asked about but has wanted to explore, encourages her silent curiosity. “My father died when I was three.” The gut reaction is to apologize for such an admission, but Wanda withholds her condolence, understanding that it is not always helpful, can, in fact, be infuriating to hear such things. “I,” the words fall away as he stares out at the mountains, which allows her to study the lines of his face while he rearranges his thoughts and determines the best way to share information she assumed would be far too personal for him to deem worthy of providing. “The only remnant I had of my father was a broken threshing machine, and I,” he raises his hands up, fingers spreading apart as he stares at the puckered and discolored skin of his palms, mouth falling as if his hands had betrayed him, “devoted every spare minute of my youth reconstructing it, which, consequently gave me the skills to be noticed by the foreman of the factory and gain my scholarship.”  
   
He stops talking, arms collapsing against his chest as he rubs his eyes and this time she reaches out to brush his arm, “You couldn’t let Stark lose the reactor.”  
   
“Wanda?”  
   
“Vision?”  
   
“I believe,” believe is drawn out and uncertain, his voice wavering as he finishes and it causes a scurry of nervous energy, legs uncrossing and then recrossing at her ankle as she waits for him to keep talking. “It may be easier for you to read the rest yourself.”  
   
Wanda first looks at the stack of papers on the table, but he is aware she cannot decipher the writing, leaving one interpretation. Only Pietro ever willinging offered this which is why she has to clarify his statement, ensure he is aware of the full meaning of his acquiescence “Are you asking me to read your mind?”  
   
“I am.”  
   
There are various types of surprise, the giddy kind when finding something long desired, the subdued but curious spark when information is learned that, though new, was somewhat expected, there is the calming nature of discovering a long lost joy, the harrowing chill of learning of an unexpected loss, but this kind, the one that acts like a cat, rotating deep within her body as it settles itself, is new. His words are clear and unhindered, firm in a way she never considered, not a single trace or shadow of fear on his face. “Why?”  
   
Apprehension finally waltzes across his face, eyes turning downwards to study his hands as his upper body sways with thought. “I believe in science,” when his attention returns to her, she is mesmerized at how much bluer his eyes are on a sunny day but more so at the adamant sincerity of his unblinking gaze, “which requires proof. Though I wholeheartedly,” the three syllables are enunciated with equitable force to raze any doubts she might have about his willingness to trust her words, “believe you. I also feel myself drawn to experience it.”  
   
“You are not afraid?”  
   
His eyebrows arch in confusion, wrinkling the skin between his eyes. “I have no reason to fear you.”    
   
A statement she could counter with numerous instances that should lead to at least a healthy level of apprehension, except she’s hesitant to encourage him away from the confident stance of accepting her powers. “Okay.” Wanda has tracked his mind before to find him, even delved into his thoughts in the rain, this, however, is different because he will be aware of her presence. An antsiness develops in her fingers, heart beating rapidly and a knot forming in her stomach at merely considering the intimacy of his request, a feeling that is surprising (a good, warming, unexpected and yet wholly expected kind) and slightly worrisome. She smooths her skirt in an attempt to calm her voice. “It is easier to maintain a connection if I can touch you,” a mostly true statement, the closer she is to a mind the less onerous it is to keep the flow of her powers going, the deeper she sifts through someone’s thoughts the more power she needs, ergo, if she can touch him, eliminate all distance, she will eliminate all extraneous variables.  
   
Now he seems apprehensive, a flutter of successive blinks and a polite, uncertain cough seem primed to backtrack the offer. “If that facilitates a successful experience then I oblige.”  
   
Wanda smiles at him as she stands, scarlet pooling from her hands helps her move the table from between them and her chair as close to his as it can go, the wide armrests gently touching. Then she sits down, ankles crossing in the same motion that pivots her knees in his direction, body leaning against the armrest to bring her nearer to him. Without even reaching yet, she can feel a frenzy in his mind, one that does not match the expertly controlled muscles of his face, an incongruence she finds fascinating and endearing. “May I?” Her hand hovers just above his cheek.  His hand, would, in theory suffice (as it did for Stark at the séance), but a hand is not ideal, and if he is willing, Wanda feels emboldened to create a more intimate experience.  
   
“You may.”  
   
Gently her hand molds to the curve of his jaw, fingertips coming to rest on his high and defined cheekbones, her palm tickled by the hairs of his sideburns. She offers another smile, one he reciprocates along with a slight widening of his pupils, a detail she would never notice if she was not mere inches from his face. “If you,” Vision ducks his chin to watch her, “are ever uncomfortable.”  
   
“I will inform you.”  
   
Scarlet forms just beneath her skin, powers expanding in a steady, deliberately easy pace so as not to startle him. Once he seems amenable to the feel of her powers against his skin (his eyes locked on the scarlet as it grows, a wave of intense and calculating interest filtering into the weak link she had already established), she enters his mind, a soft, amazed gasp tumbling from his mouth as she spreads her fingers, guiding her powers deep into his conscious. “Vision,” it is unusual to experience not just the physical manifestation of his attention (neck bending to the side and his eyes locking on her face), but also to feel his thoughts center around her, a sudden rush in his mind, pulling from every corner until he is only thinking of her and her face, the glint in her eyes, the softness of her palm, and the slight, friendly smile on her face. “I won’t pry for your memories, I will only access what you give to me.” This calms the subtle, yet noticeable, tremble that had been sending minuscule shockwaves through the branching network of his brain  
   
The first image he proffers is of the mountains, not as they were today, but ablaze with oranges and reds, a gorgeous fire that can never mar nor burn. The trees do not remain for long, morphing into a hellscape of untamable flames, the room, or what once was a room, devoured by blinding light and ebony smoke. She can feel the heat on her arms, flinches when a chair topples to the right, and sweat begins to congregate on her brow. The image keeps moving, a desperation filling her chest with each turn in the hallway, each room searched, and then they are back in the laboratory, the only change from Stark’s own memory is that by this point, there is almost nothing left, yet somehow he manages to find the arc reactor, nothing more than an azure crystal inside a cage of frayed and intertwined wires. Then there is a loud pop from the barely existent table against the wall, the one Vision had found Stark at the first time in the room, and Wanda bends her fingers, increasing the pressure of her hand to Vision’s face to steady herself. The fear dripping in her mind is hard to pinpoint, it might be from the memory, it could be from Vision as he sits in the wicker chair, but it also might be her own, unprepared for what is to come despite recognizing the sound. She heard it not only in Stark’s recollection but also in Sokovia, seconds before the factory erupted.  
   
All at once there is a creak and then everything collapses, a petrifying realization weighing her limbs down, drowning her in the crystal clear, undeniable realization that she is going to die. Yet she can feel her feet moving along with the long, frantic gait of the memory, but it’s not enough, an object slamming into his back, body tumbling to the ground. That is when an immense pressure builds, a feeling of being smothered and crushed, but the image itself is dark, smoke consuming the light and then it goes black. “At this point,” his voice is far steadier than hers would be right now, an apologetic cadence the only hint of emotion, “my clothing caught fire, but, I suppose fortuitously, I fell unconscious. My body,” a cracked breath pries her eyelids apart, revealing the painful tears that drop down his cheeks, “was shattered - my arms and wrists, my clavicles, my sternum, my hips and legs, even the majority of my muscles were decimated. Though they insisted I was overall lucky,” for the first time his voice is rancorous, disagreeing with the semantics of whomever informed him of his fortune and his own perceptions, “my head alone escaped harm.” Now her own tears start and she considers removing herself from his mind, but a new image forms, one that is blurry, scattered, nothing more than contrasts between light and shadows, voices in the distance, a feeling of weightlessness, and a crushing, undeniably debilitating pain. The next memory starts the same as the first, only this time the room is lighter, feels clean and open, a window allowing sunlight to stream into the room. Then the muscles in her arm tighten as he, well past Vision, raises his arm, is confused at what appears to be a metal bracelet, his other hand moving in an attempt to slide it off, fingers scratching vainly at the edges but the thing will not budge, and then he notices a matching cuff on his other wrist. This is when the pain resurfaces, thousands of points throughout his body, a nauseating sting deep in his skin and a tinny waft.  
   
“Did you,” Wanda is overwhelmed by the flashing memories, a sense of vertigo at how quickly each one comes and goes, realizing only after the tenth one that this is all he has, fading in and out of consciousness, “know what they were doing?”  
   
The memories stop as he answers, voice low, “Not at first, but Mr. Stark explained all the details to me once I was capable of being awake and alert for more than five minutes.”  
   
Wanda opens her eyes, removes herself from his mind though her hand remains on his face, “What did he tell you?”  
   
“He apologized,” Vision pauses, allows her a chance to doubt the claim, but she can’t find the energy to be snarky about Stark. When nothing is said, he continues, “After he learned I survived, he located me in the hospital. Apparently I had been labeled as a fatal case, one not worthy of treatment, and so I had been laid out onto a bed and shoved in a dark corner, far removed from other patients and ignored by even the nurses and aides.” Anger builds in her chest at the information. “Mr. Stark purchased another home and immediately converted one of the rooms into a medical station for me. He consulted the best surgeons in London, from my understanding offered enormous amounts of money for a feasible solution.”  
   
“Are you trying to make me think highly of Stark?”  
   
The comment is weak, an attempt at levity as a way to stop herself from throwing her arms around him and crying, something she thinks might terrify him. A small, mildly amused arc forms on his mouth, “My intention is not to persuade you, though I do hope it illuminates the nuance of his character.”  
   
Wanda shrugs, “I will save my final judgment for later.”  
   
“That is fair.”  
   
The flow of information seems to stop at their change in conversation, so Wanda gently nudges it back, “How did they decide to use metal?”  
   
“Oh, it was an experimental treatment, one Mr. Stark crafted himself based on a military contract, something concerning what they deemed an exoskeleton.” Vision leans back, too far for her hand to remain on his face, so she reluctantly drops it, curiously watching as he extends an arm, meticulously folding his shirt sleeve until his forearm is visible. The daylight provides a better view of his body than the gas lamps, the metal more polished and brighter than her last glimpse and it is oddly beautiful, the flow of metal stemming from the cuff at his wrist. “From my understanding, for which I have been purposely left ignorant of the details, I believe Mr. Stark might have stolen the vibranium.” This is an interesting development, one that, if it was anyone other than Stark, she would condone, because if she wanted to save a life, she too would steal whatever was needed.  
   
“Can I-” Wanda points at his wrist to finish her thought, hoping her intention is not only clear but acceptable.  
   
He stares at his arm, brows knitting as he bites the inside of his bottom lip, and then he drops his shoulders, arm extending out towards her with a nod. Delicately she curls her fingers around his palm, not unlike their last time on this balcony, only today her focus is beyond his hand, no longer needing to read his lines to determine his traits, because now she has his mind and his trust, which are far more indicative of his character. The metal is cold, refreshing in the humidity of the summer. Her fingertips follow the rods embedded in his forearm, moving along the curved edges and marveling at the construction and placement. “It took six surgeries for my body to accept it,” the only physical reaction to her touch is the way he intently watches the journey of her fingers on his arm. “Though, as you may have surmised, my body is still not wholly content with the invasive materials, the rivets are a different material from the rest and they,” as he says it she taps the hexagonal head of one of the bolts holding the metal in place, “oxidize and break down after three months-“  
   
“Or sooner if you are reckless.”  
   
“Yes, Miss Maximoff,” the name regression is playful, a sharp use of etiquette to undermine his agreeance with her mock admonishment.  
   
Wanda rotates his arm to better examine the hinge hiding underneath the rolled up cuff of his sleeve. “Can you feel this?” A swipe along the rod only elicits a shake of his head, confirming her suspicions. “This?” Lazily she walks her fingers over the metal, brushing along his skin, the flexing of his fingers enough of an answer.  
   
“Yes, that I can feel.” Now that she’s established his sense of tactile perception, Wanda moves from metal to skin, testing the texture and warmth, intrigued at the interplay between the two. “Do you mind if-“  
   
“Seems like I might be interrupting something.”  
   
Vision immediately removes his arm from her grip, shoving it behind his back as he stands with a wince, greeting the dark-skinned man from the séance. “Officer Rhodes.”  
   
A knowing, suggestive smile spreads across the sailor’s face, “And Tony was worried you’d be uncomfortable.” He folds his arms behind his back, standing up straighter with a wink in their direction,”I’ll leave you be, just don’t go beyond doing the bear****, Tony’s heading back now.”  
   
“Thank you, Officer Rhodes.” The moment the other man leaves, Vision rolls his sleeve down, limbs tightening as he reverts to a more butler-like stance. “I must prepare for Mr. Stark’s return,” methodically he arranges the papers in a stack, tapping them three times against the tabletop to even out the edges and then turns towards her, “If you wish to join me, I had some matters to discuss about your new residence.”  
   
The world for the past days has been small, her existence encased by a bubble that did not reach beyond the manor. Somehow Wanda had forgotten her sojourn at this estate was merely a visit, a chance to regain her footing. It should be thrilling, to return to independence, travel far from Stark and the residents of a town who believe justice  lies in the ebb and flow of a river. But leaving also means the possibility of never seeing Vision again, of deserting the, to her at least, the existence and connection with a kindred spirit. “I will.”  
   
She walks mutely beside him, their steps synchronized as she follows him into his room where he ignites the lamp on the wall and the one on his desk, the sun having crossed to the other side of the manor. The papers are placed atop the cherry desk, Vision stepping effortlessly around the room, removing a bowl from a cabinet, a small burlap sack from the bottom drawer of his desk, a jug from the closet, and then a wrapped cloth package, all of which are placed in a specified order based on the care with which he arranges everything. “I believe,” the words arrive as a muffled sound, her concerns distorting the environment around her, “I will be well enough to travel tomorrow, if you are prepared to leave.”  
   
Wanda needs more time to allow the words to clear, identify the meaning and search for subtextual information. “Vision there is no need to rush, you are allowed to heal.”  
   
“I assure you that I will be fine,” a statement in conflict with the tremble of his hands while opening the jug, the liquid sloshing as he pours it into the bowl. “Honestly, I become quite despondent without some purpose in my day.”  
   
The conversational intonation is amiable, should be filling her with joy but she cannot exorcise the creep of despair at the implications. “Do you want me to leave?”  
   
This stops his progress, hands coming to rest on the cloth bundle as he stares at her, calculates precisely how to respond. “I truly relish your company,” the opposing side of this comment hangs in the air, a clear, unquestionable _but_ coming in the most polite, yet infuriating, way to express bad news to someone - start positive, end negative. “I,” Vision stands, turning his body to face her, eyes focused on the velvet tips of his shoes before they snap up to connect with her own stare, “am certain, however, it is not in your best interest to remain at the manor, given the proximity to Mr. Stark.”  
   
“What he’s trying to say,” just as pestilence descends without much warning, they both turn to find Stark leaning against the doorframe, his haughty smile infiltrating and infecting the air around them, “is that I am insufferable to live with, you agree V?”  
   
The butler’s response is far more honest than Robert Roberts would allow,  a two-handed shrug and a nod of agreement, “It is not effortless, by any means.”  
   
“And he,” Tony marches into the room, clapping a hand to the butler’s shoulder (producing an instantaneous cringe), “unlike you, adores me.”  An unsubstantiated claim given Vision’s un-enthusiastic agreeance with the strong terminology, but that appears not to phase Stark, who squares his body up with the butler, other hand coming to rest on the man’s shoulder as he scrutinizes him. “You ready?”  
   
Vision breathes in before answering, fingers flexing and a slight bend developing in his knees, “I suppose.”  
   
“Shoulders?”  
   
“Correct.”  
   
The routine of whatever is happening seems set, a silent dance as Tony steps around Vision, finishes laying out the materials the butler had collected, and in time with this, Vision takes a delicate, though rigid seat on the edge of the bed, hands shaking as he starts to undo the button at the top of his shirt. Wanda is torn between backing away and exiting the room, her presence seeming inconsequential to their actions, but she is also thoroughly intrigued which roots her feet to the ground. Tony begins inspecting a set of gleaming, well-cared for tools, fingers running along the edges of a scalpel, opening and closing a set of pliers, and then he blows on the tips of a tiny brush, it reminds her of the surgeon’s pre-torture habits, and Wanda’s stomach sinks and churns. “Do you,” the only thing she can think to do to counteract the increasingly horrific memories boiling up from her past, is to not remain idle, “want help?”  
   
“We’re fine, thank you.” Tony’s response is immediate and dismissive.  
   
But Vision’s is tentative and, perhaps, contemplative, “Mr. Stark, it is quite extensive this time.”  
   
The pliers he had been opening and closing, drop onto the mattress as Tony turns towards the butler, eyes narrowed and face serious. “Which we’ve dealt with before, alone. You’re,” an accusatory finger is directed at Vision, “the one who insists no one know,” and then it swings towards Wanda, “and you are the one who did this so I think it’s in his,” back to Vision, though it is now less accusatory and more obnoxiously paternalistic, “best interest not to have you around for this as I’m sure you’ll just weasel it in to another séance.”  
   
“Mr. Stark,” Wanda remains quiet, understanding Vision’s consent and wishes are the only thing of importance here, but it does not stop her arms from crossing nervously, a movement that happens along with Stark placing his hands impatiently on his hips as the butler speaks, “I appreciate your vigilance of my well-being, but from my understanding, Miss Maximoff, while helping you, has already experienced the extent of my injuries.”  
   
He stops talking, the two men silently communicating with a long, weighty stare that ends when Stark produces an overly dramatic, chest puffing out, hands flying to the side, sigh. “Fine, but only because you have a tendency to writhe.”  
   
The comment widens Vision’s eyes, a satisfied grin puckering Stark’s lips at the response. “Mr. Stark-”  
   
“What? That’s vital information.” Tony sends her a suggestive wink and she feels nauseous for an entirely different reason now, “This one’s,” he nods his head towards the increasingly red face of the butler, “not much of a talker, lets his body do that, for future reference.”  
   
“Mr. Stark, please.” Where Tony’s lack of social acumen is disheartening, the pleading ignominy in Vision’s voice causes her to smile, finally experiencing what it takes to demolish the guardedness of his persona. “Can we continue?”  
   
Wanda approaches the bed, hovering awkwardly as she watches Tony concede to the butler’s question with, “Fine,” and then he sits next to the man, swats away his trembling hands and begins unbuttoning the shirt. “You are going too slow.” The explanation is, contrary to what she thought would happen, not challenged, Vision simply dropping his hands to the mattress as Stark undoes each of the pearlescent buttons of the shirt before helping the man ease it off. Just as on the balcony, the view today, in a slightly better lit room and with less swirling, all encompassing guilt, is more detailed, the pathways of metal distinct and dizzying, not a single part of his body is left without some trace of hardware. “Maximoff.”  
   
She forces her eyes away from the butler’s body, refocusing on the annoyed glare from Stark. “Pay attention. I need you,” he waves impatiently at her, hand directing her to sit behind Vision on the bed, “right there. Good, now,” the directions are accompanied by lots of pointing and demonstrative hand movements, “Your job is to hold him steady, if he pushes against you, push right back, understood?”  
   
“Understood.” The network of metal is just as extensive on his back, something she had reasoned the first time she saw him, yet the reality of plates stretching along his upper back and the cage around his chest extending and fusing with the dual strips of metal along either side of his spine is overwhelming, the melancholy of his admissions earlier and the anguished memories far more impactful now. This reverie is broken when she feels his body lean forcefully against her palms and she has to ignite her powers to withstand the sudden weight.  
   
“We really,” Wanda cannot see what is happening on the other side of the butler, but Tony’s voice is strained, still sardonic, but it is clear he is struggling, “should have done this earlier.” The lack of response from Vision is concerning, the clenching of his muscles beneath her hands the only indication that he, too, is having difficulty. “So,” Tony’s voice changes, a forced congeniality moving him into a conversational, strained tone, one she imagines is being utilized as distraction more so than him believing now is the time to discuss business matters, “given any thought to why our little engine is failing?”  
   
Now Vision speaks, words stuttering out as if his teeth are clenched and must be pried open for each syllable, “Other than the punishment for bypassing Corliss’****** patent?”  
   
“Oh don’t,” the tension in the butler’s back eases as Tony sits up, shifting his weight to place something in a bowl, “go all moral high ground on me. I’m not the only one tinkering with it in this house”  
   
The deep, gasping breaths expand his back, Wanda’s hands rising and falling, her eyes locked on the unmoving metal, wondering if he can always feel the inflexible material when he breathes. “I believe it is either the shape of the valves or, from my,” another deep breath runs through his body, “understanding, he has modified the flywheel, though none of the materials explain precisely what he modified.”  
   
“Well that’s why I have the best mind working on it,” for once Tony’s voice isn’t laced with subtext, there is no hint of sarcasm or derision, simply a genuine, affectionate reassurance. “Maximoff?”  
   
Wanda rises up onto her knees to glance over the butler’s shoulders, “Yes?”  
   
“Be ready, I’m about to put the new rivet in, it’s, well V how’d you describe it once?”  
   
His body moves against her hands as he turns slightly to peek over his shoulder, “One of the most primal and purest forms of agony imaginable to mankind.”  
   
The description seems odd until the process starts, the pressure of Stark inserting a new fastener into Vision’s body causes the butler to, not writhe exactly, but certainly respond viscerally and immediately to the pain, her powers streaming along his skin as she holds him steady, clamps down on the despair rising in her own chest because she knows it will not be useful. As Stark continues to work, a cycle of light tension (accompanied by more idle conversation) moving into bursts of agony and decreased bodily control, Wanda realizes the extent of what is happening, eyes trailing along the eight tarnished rivets securing the plate in Vision’s upper back.  
   
Eventually it stops, momentarily, Tony standing up, wiping his hands as he stares sympathetically at the butler, and then Wanda is directed to switch places, now sitting in front of Vision, her hands cautiously laying against his chest, just under the shoulder-to-shoulder metal strip. “Vision?” His downcast eyes slide up to stare at her, the gaze forlorn and suffering, no gentle _Wanda_ or even _Miss Maximoff_ , only a silent indication he hears her. “I can help.” The offer is whispered, her hand rising to brush his temple to convey her intent, a motion small so as not to attract Stark’s attention as he begins his work on Vision’s back.  
   
The “Please” is plaintive and weak, a heartrending embodiment of the pain he is feeling. Without any other words, she moves her hand back to his chest, bracing his body as he tries his best to temper a groan, and then she leans forward, resting her forehead against his and closes her eyes. The flow of her powers into his mind is steady, a practiced, perfect calming pattern that she used on Pietro during the excruciating months of experimentation and coping with their newfound abilities.  She discovered, rather quickly, it was not so much the thought or the image or the words being transmitted, but the emotion, which requires her to minimize her own misgivings, quell the concern billowing at each ragged breath she feels against her face, remove the guilt nestled deep within her mind that she is to blame for this, and instead be the sense of order his mind currently lacks. Scarlet snakes through his mind, guiding the erratic, uncontrolled flashes of his consciousness back into the calm she has come to associate with him, craves to feel, and she does this by centering his focus on a pulsating, soothing ball of red energy. Though his muscles are still tight under her hands, the rushed breathing dissipates along with some of the pain-induced tumultuous thoughts. Wanda is surprised when she feels his hands along her waist, fingers gripping the fabric of her dress as he grimaces at the next rivet placement, but his mind remains mildly at peace and that is enough to bring a mild sense of pride.  
   
The remainder of the procedure continues on this path, occasional spikes of pain in the forced calm of his mind, either a wince or a sharp intake of breath, and a clench of his hands followed by an evening out of the blustering waves of his emotions. It is only Tony’s confused and uncertain, “I’m done,” that breaks their connection, Wanda removing herself from Vision’s mind as the man sits back, hands pulling away from her waist while he nods at Stark. “Okay,” the word is lengthy, questioning, but when neither of them offer an explanation, Tony gives an exaggerated nod, “Guess I’m going to clean up, you,” this is directed at the butler, “rest and you,” this time at her,  “let him rest.”  
   
Vision stares at his hands for several minutes after Tony’s exit, fingers interlocking in various patterns and then his eyes wander up, glancing at her meekly as he whispers, “Thank you.”  
   
“You’re welcome.” His eyes drift down and to the side, this inability to maintain eye contact unexplained, though she suspects it is either that he is overwhelmed, embarrassed, or perhaps both, the only sounds from him are small, breathy sighs that expand and contract the muscles of his chest  The silence is unsettling to her, and so Wanda seeks to eliminate the rippling uncertainty between them with a question requiring a concrete answer. “What was that?”  
   
Another deep inhale and he sits up straighter, though he continues to falter in maintaining eye contact. “I explained the course of break down earlier, if the corroded rivets remain in my body it will only continue to poison my blood.”  
   
“You have to replace all of them,” her eyes bounce from rivet to rivet, forfeiting her attempt to count the number once she reaches fifty (and that is only on his chest), the knowledge of what changing sixteen did to him just now distressing, but to think of what the process must entail to change all of them is too much for her to comprehend as tears build in her eyes, “every single one?”  
   
His voice is far too calm and devoid of emotion, “Every three months.” In the rain he had told her his life depended on remaining with Stark, at the time she had thought it was an exaggeration, that he was sidestepping and justifying his poor life decisions, but now she realizes the seriousness of the remark. “It is why,” the placidity of his demeanor cracks slightly, a vibration instilling itself in his words as he proceeds cautiously but with undeniable conviction, “what I want is unimportant.”  
   
Wanda’s head snaps up at the comment and the surrender in his voice, “I understand why you are with Stark,” this she is finally willing to concede but refuses to allow the furtherance of his despondency beyond that, “but it still does not negate your wants.”  
   
“Wanda,” the firmness of her name is jarring, the usual softness removed, “my life can only be dictated by what I am, not what I want.”  
   
There are far too many implications of his answer for her to readily combat, so she focuses on the one she deems most pertinent, “Nothing about you dictates you must be Stark’s butler, you have other skills you could-”  
   
The sentence ends when he counters back, anticipating the rest of her rebuttal, “I no longer possess the dexterity to handle the small parts of machines and,” it is unnecessary to draw attention to his still bare chest, but he does so with a wave of his hand, “my work was with electricity, there is no greater conductor than metal. I would surely die.”  
   
“But that does not mean you cannot pursue the field or that you cannot work in some other capacity for Stark.” Vision rises from the bed, the mattress sinking beneath her at the displacement of weight, and reaches the desk in two strides, his hands sifting through the papers until he finds the appropriate piece for his next point. A slightly discolored newspaper clipping is offered to her, one she takes, eyes roaming the text she cannot comprehend, certain there is some information she can decipher for him to deem it important to show her this. He resumes his position on the bed, his stare serious as he allows her time to study the paper. There are dates at the top, but far more chilling is the detailed hand drawn portrait of a young man, hair longer, less tamed, with slightly bushy sideburns, and a serious stare. “What is this?”  
   
Vision glances at the paper, at the depiction of his face, “I made a conscious decision to sever all ties to my former self, Mr. Stark had this printed and distributed while we were traveling across the ocean to take up residence in this manor. Victor Williams,” he stares at the ghost in her hands, the name faltering on his lips, “perished in a horrific house fire, survived by no family, and thus erased from time.”  
   
The intent is to solidify the depersonalization of his existence, the infuriating regression away from admitting he is more than the metal embedded in his flesh, but Wanda refuses to allow him to continue on this path, tossing the paper to the floor dismissively. “It is fortuitous that I have never met Victor Williams then, because it means there is little doubt that the caring, intelligent, frustratingly polite man I’ve become quite fond of is Vision.”  
   
Vision falters, mouth trapped in a state of half-opened surprise. “Wanda I cannot,” the progress of his thought stops, reorienting as he continues his attempted rally against her confession, “I am not,” he drops his gaze, fingers picking at the folds of his pants before he settles on the argument, “human anymore.”  
   
“If you are not, then neither am I.” Immediately his resolve solidifies, defiance darkening the blue of his eyes at the similarity she draws between them. “You had six surgeries, I had eight,” she leans forward, shoves the sleeve of her blouse up and offers him her arm, pointing out every scar created from the needles and the scalpels, at times bullets and knives, “this is only a small portion of my disfigurement, my mind was twisted, my body tortured and now,” a scarlet inferno bursts from her hand, flickering in the metal on his torso, “I am this.” She extinguishes the red, fills the void left by his lack of response with more self loathing, “Unlike you, however, I chose this, volunteered for it. So perhaps I am even less human than you.”  
   
Gingerly he wraps his hand around her wrist, thumb running along a scar she doesn’t have the heart to tell him was self-inflicted, an act of desperation in the first day her powers formed, the onslaught of thoughts and emotions too much. The confident, eerily normal thoughts of the soldiers and doctors intermingled with the horrified screaming of the other patients, every emotion, every stray thought, every feeling inundating her and, at that time, she lacked any knowledge or skill to temper the reach of her powers. “Wanda, I-”  
   
“When you can look me in the eye,” an action he does as if commanded by her words, “and inform me I am not human, then I will concede to your own views and I will leave you be.” Vision stares at her aghast, a shake of his head denying her these words, for which she is thankful, because if he proceeded with the dared action, she doubts she’d be able to hold back the despair threatening to form rivulets down her cheeks. “You need rest.” Wanda twists her wrist from his grasp, rubbing at the warmth retained in her skin from his touch, and then she exits the bed. “I think,” the decision is not easy and is contrary to her own wants, something she won’t admit now lest he logic his way back into the abyss from before, “you are correct, I can’t stay here with Stark.”     
   
His face drops, at which part is hard to tell without delving into his thoughts, yet that is not a place she desires to be right now. Painstakingly he removes the sorrow from his face, replaces it with the neutrality she has come to expect from him in instances where emotions may be too much. “It is for the best, you, at least, are able to be independent.”  
   
Wanda bites her tongue against challenging him back, curls her fingers into tight, scarlet imbued fists and leaves the room, shutting the door perhaps a touch harder than necessary because she can feel the tears dripping onto her skin and taste the hint of salt on her lips. “Day four is a rough one.” This is the last voice she needs, particularly the pity-filled inflection of his words. “Every single time he just flops right back into his whole,” Tony attempts an English accent, one that is insultingly awful due to being too high-pitched and overly dramatic, “I am not human, do not look upon my twisted flesh, I am worthless.”  
   
It is not humorous and yet she laughs, her ability to regulate emotions stripped bare, her mind exhausted. “Every time?”  
   
“Like clockwork, but unlike you,” she expects the rest to be condescending and is pleasantly surprised when it is subdued and far too personable for Stark, “I’ve had plenty of time to get used to it, I’m actually here to fix it for everyone’s well-being.” He lifts a crystal carafe of amber liquid and a single, matching glass.  
   
This does not seem likely to work, given what she has gathered about the butler. “You are planning to get him intoxicated?”  
   
“Oh, no,” Stark slips effortlessly back into his overly confident, nonchalant persona, “he won’t touch it, it’s for me,” he shakes the container at her, “my antidote to his morbs.******* I’m just here to remind him it could be much worse.”  
   
A tactic she finds odd without more information. “How so?”  
   
The typical beaming Stark smile takes on a self-deprecating note, “He could be me.”  
   
   
   
   
The next morning there is a steaming copper pitcher, white towel protectively swaddled around the handle, waiting at her door.  She gleefully takes it, almost ashamed at how ecstatic she is for the last luxurious experience of hot water in the morning that requires no work from her to heat, but deems it the manor’s parting gift to her. Once she has washed up she is not surprised to find tea at her door, but is shocked that it is being held by a polished, three-piece suit clad, leather gloves on his hands, and hair swept precisely to the side, Vision. “Good morning, Wanda.”  
   
A tendril of scarlet snakes around the cup, lifting it from his hand, an action that leads to a faint smirk on his face. “Morning.”  
   
“I,” his hands travel behind his back without a wince and only a touch slower than usual, “wished to apologize for my dour and deplorable temperament yesterday.” Maintaining his carefully cultured air of refinement dictates he apologize, a fact that almost erases the gesture, but his eyes are sincere and remorseful.  
   
“Thank you.”  
   
The soft click of his polished heel denotes his intention to leave and her signal to shut the door, until he pauses, body stiff as he revolves to face her once more with the weighty stare of a butler, though she now knows it is also the man. “Is your intention still to depart today?”  
   
Sleep, as has been its relationship with her throughout her life, was fleeting the night before, analyzing every word, touch, and breath in order to string together what might be the best outcome for her. The supposition is correct that she is predisposed to dip back into murderous rage if she remains in Stark’s presence, and so she is at peace with leaving, delighted even, to discover the next era of her life in a town far removed from the whispers of her witchcraft and a punitive river. “I am.” The decision is not entirely enthusiastic, because she recognizes that, though she would be thrilled to remain in contact with Vision, it must be a mutual decision. If he is not motivated to seek her out, then she cannot expend the emotional energy to continually draw him out.  
   
“Very well.” The finality of the word breaks her heart before the shards sprout wings at his lips curling into a bashful smile. “I learned recently that the market in Normanskill is renowned for its carrots.”  
   
“Is that so?”  
   
A nod and a shuffling of feet, his gloved fingers tapping lighting against each other, “I believe, after I inspect it, of course, that I may be changing my weekly routine to visit the market every Wednesday and would be,” his hands part, one journeying up to tug at his ear lobe, “delighted if you wished to join me.”  
   
The grin breaks on her face without resistance, “Only if it’s what you want.”  
   
“It most certainly is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations and Historical Facts  
> *Toothbrushes were common in Europe in the early 1800s but didn't become common in the US until the late 1800s  
> **The term dental hygiene was coined in 1844.  
> ***gigglemug -- An habitually smiling face  
> ****nanty-narker: great fun  
> ***** doing the bear: courting that involves hugging  
> ******Corliss’ updated valves that revolutionized the steam engine were first patented in 1849, but Corliss (understandably)  
> was very vigilant about people trying to steal his patent.  
> *******Morbs (The actual term is Got the Morbs): temporary melancholy
> 
> So, here ends Part 1 of an Auspice of Scarlet. Thank you so very much for reading this, it's been incredibly fun, but also exhausting. I'm going to take a short break from the story (hopefully no more than a couple months) mainly because, though I have outlined the entire story, I made substantial changes while writing Part 1 which requires me to re-do my outline and plotting for Part 2. When I get back to it, be ready for a more sweeping Part 2, both in the location (so long Stark manor!) and in the stakes for our blossoming love birds.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated. 
> 
> I truly hope you enjoyed this!


	6. In which the past is left behind and the future is embraced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda adjusts to her new life while also navigating how to interact with Vision outside of the manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Everyone! Sorry for the longer than planned break on this story, but I'm back now and am hoping to go back to my monthly updates on it.
> 
> Here starts Part 2!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Wanda hunches her back, lifting the wrinkly palm closer to her face, the task of finding the most pertinent lines rendered more difficult by the effects of age and a lifetime of manual labor. “Is fame and fortune in my future?” The question is asked with a good-natured playfulness, a hearty laugh joining the gleam in the elderly woman’s eyes when Wanda glances up at her. This woman is a widow, not a recently made one, or so she informed Wanda the first time she sat on the stool and shoved her hand out. This is, if Wanda is recalling correctly, the sixth time she has read the woman’s palm, the only person from this tiny town that has been willing to dip their toes into mysticism, their avoidance of her more out apathy than fear, she thinks. “So,” a nudge to Wanda’s shin brings her back to the present, “fame or fortune?”

A tight, politely apologetic smile goes along with Wanda’s response, “That is beyond the scope of this reading.” If she wanted to, Wanda could easily delve into the woman’s mind, mine for information she can twist into profoundly prophetic albeit empty statements, but since the séance and its fallout, she has vowed to be slightly more judicious with her powers. “Based on the branching of your life line,” Wanda traces the line etched deep in the woman’s palm, “you have been blessed with extra vitality, some would consider that quite fortunate.”

“You know,” the tone and cadence of these two words is known by everyone, the drawn out, condescending preface of someone who believes they are better versed in a matter than the expert they’re talking to. Wanda can’t afford to lose her one client so she clamps her annoyance down and remains silent. “The readers in the city,” a term that is loosely used by the inhabitants of quiet communities to speak of any conglomeration of people larger than 200, “always tell me fame, fortune, and love are just around the corner.”

Wanda fully believes the other readers claim this, regardless of what the lines actually say, broad optimism the greatest tool of manipulation within the craft, “Well Mrs. Mesnier-”

“Miss—don’t want to scare off potential suitors.”

The wink is salacious, far more practiced than even Stark’s signature smarminess, stirring a small laugh from Wanda’s lungs as she corrects her statement. “Miss Mesnier, I refuse to interpret beyond the lines.”

A succession of four clicks comes from the woman’s mouth making her disagreement with Wanda’s refusal transparent, her interest in the reading waning as her eyes idly scan the sunlit market visible through the swooping part of the curtains over the entrance of Wanda’s makeshift stall.  “Would you mind re-examining my heart line then?”  

This is the most common request Wanda gets in such readings, though usually from tittering socialites who only recently discovered the idea of romantic attraction and courtship. “I am certain it hasn’t chang-” 

Wanda’s assurance of the uselessness of the act is cut off by Miss Meisner tugging her hand, lightly enough that it remains in Wanda’s grip, but hard enough to direct her eyes to follow along with the woman’s. “Are you certain? That dapper yard-of-pump-water* is quite intently staring at me.”   

There is, in fact, a dapper man watching them, his three-piece suit and matching hat impeccable yet jarring against the rougher fabrics of the people milling about around him. His gloved hands are occupied with a simple, unshowy wicker basket, and even from this distance, she can make out the way he nervously wrings his fingers around the handle. Wanda’s lips curve upwards at the sight of him, an antsiness spreading through her body the longer she stares. “I’m sorry, Miss Mesnier,” Wanda squeezes the woman’s hand before dropping it, “he’s here for me.” 

“Oh, well,” the distinctive clink of a coin against the table harmonizes the disappointed of her voice and the rustling of the large, high-waisted skirt, “I predict fortune and love in your future then.” 

Wanda barely registers the woman leaving, her mind far more focused on the approaching form of Vision and the tentative arc of his mouth that matches her own. “Miss Maximoff,” a slight, polite bow goes along with her name. 

“I thought,” she waits until his bow is over, “we were past Miss Maximoff.” 

Embarrassment flits across his face, a quick gaze to his left accompanying the clearing of his throat as a family walks past them. “I do not wish for anyone to perceive my behavior as untoward.”   

“I see,” it’s an unfounded concern, no one in the town will likely notice or even be aware of the norms of high class culture, but Wanda determines to play along for now, both to make him feel comfortable and as a way to channel her own nervousness. “Well, Mr. Vision,” she stands just a bit taller, chin snapping up to mimic how she’s seen women in expensive parlors act, “wouldn’t it be quite untoward if you didn’t offer me your arm?” 

The effect is instantaneous, his discomfiture falling away in time with his lips turning ever so slightly up, a sight she hopes means that he has not spent the last two weeks ruminating about her abhorrent actions and all the pain she wrought on both him and Stark. “I had been informed that such offers suggest a lack of independence and I did not wish to insult your self-sufficiency.” 

His tone is surprising, wholly welcome and exhilarating, but still contrary to what she’s come to expect from him when manners are involved. “Would Robert Robert’s approve of such cheekiness?” 

“Mr. Roberts would not condone this visit in the slightest, so I suppose,” a subdued yet what she can only describe as rebellious smirk goes along with the offer of his arm, “there is no need to strictly adhere to his rules while I am here.” 

“Fascinating.” Wanda slides her arm into the triangular gap between his torso and elbow, her fingers curving gently into the folds of his jacket, and it’s only now that she realizes his hesitation at offering his arm the night she arrived unexpectedly at the manor, even through the multiple layers of fabric she can feel the hardness of the rods, if she extends her fingers she can brush the hinge at his elbow. Shame flares beneath her cheeks, something that has been common in the dark hours of the night since she moved, her thoughts relentlessly cycling through her past actions, identifying all of the signs she missed because of her narrowed focus on revenge. But she has learned that with knowledge comes the ability to rectify past ignorance, more than that, is that she is finally at peace with all that has happened, content and proud that, though she still harbors a strong, unshakable distrust towards Stark, her hands no longer erupt with scarlet when the memories stir. “So,” but now is not the time to delve back into the depths of her regrets, her past is immutable and her hand is on the future, “what is on your list?” 

“Nothing in particular,” the nonchalance of the comment is yet another surprise for a man she assumes has lists and detailed plans for every aspect of his day, control over the environment a vital aspect of his butlering. Vision pulls her gently towards a stall, “I am simply examining the potential of the merchandise.” 

Wanda watches with interest as they move through the stalls, the precision and repetition of his examination mesmerizing, whether he is investigating lettuce, carrots, radishes, cuts of meat, or gaudy penswipers, he is always diligent in selecting the most pristine specimen. “How are things at the manor?” 

A tomato is tossed back into a bin, deemed unacceptable. “Quite hectic, actually.” They move towards a cabbage stall, his lips pursing as he forms his next statement, “Mr. Stark and I are in the midst of preparing for several demonstrations and he seems to prefer completing the work in the middle of the night.” Vision’s distaste for such antics is clear, the shedding of his butler persona more pronounced as the distance between himself and the manor increases. 

“What are you-” she stops her question, a deep vexation building at the sight of Vision paying the mustached man at their current stop, “Did you just pay forty cents** for that?” 

“I-” Vision’s eyes move between the incredulity on her face and the head of cabbage in his hand, “yes.” 

Wanda shakes her head, lips fighting against showing the mirth bubbling up at the guilty look on his face.  “You’re being swindled.” The comment is loud enough to reach the farmer at the stall, his attention quickly moving on to the next customer as he shoves the money farther into his pocket, but Wanda isn’t going to insist on rectifying the con, if she’s being wholly honest, she has, quite unapologetically, overcharged poshly dressed gentlemen for palm readings before. “I think it’s the hat.” 

Vision’s eyes rotate up to study the brim of his simple, yet elegant top hat, “I believe the absence of my hat would do little to negate the dissimilitude of my clothing.” A fact that is irrefutable, Normanskill is a labor community of roughly sixty people, almost all of whom work at the lumber mill and none of them likely own a three-piece suit, much less one near the quality of Vision’s.   

“It might be worth losing it anyway.” They both know the suggestion is ridiculous, or so she presumes his raised eyebrows indicate, but Wanda uses it as a small redirection meant exclusively to goad a more relaxed quality of conversation from the butler. The absence of any obligation to serve creates a striking difference in Vision’s demeanor, subtle enough she doubts anyone else would describe his precise movements and polite words as casual, but she finds herself growing even more enamored and fascinated with him in this setting. 

Vision gently removes his arm from hers, bending to place the overpriced cabbage into his basket before reaching up and lifting the hat from his head. “Better?” 

He is still overdressed, and will no doubt continue to be taken advantage of, yet it does create a marginally less moneyed persona. Wanda gives an affirming nod, “Much better, you should get lower prices now.” 

“I personally,” a tiny, likely-improper-for-a-butler shrug accompanies his words, “see no reason to argue over cost. Mr. Stark will not care if I pay two cents or forty, so the affront to my dignity is worthwhile if it means giving money to someone who will notice it.” 

The mindset of limitless money is foreign to her, to everyone around them, her own pockets practically empty, the people here are sensible, practical, and have relatively low levels of superstition, a fact that is both an issue for her income but also a boon for her ability to not be chased from town or have her tools thrown into a river. “That’s very noble of you.” 

Vision picks the basket back up, his top hat perched on its lid, and offers her his arm once more, ignoring the sardonic drip of her comment, “Shall we?” They stroll casually along the dirt road, occasionally stopping for Vision to buy more produce, a companionable silence between them that matches the serenity of the cloudless day. “Wanda?” She tilts her head up to look at the budding question on his face, “Are you happy here?” 

It’s a multifaceted question, happiness determined by far too many things to provide a simple but truthful answer. “No one has thrown me into a river or destroyed my belongings, so...” 

“That is good.” 

If Wanda thinks about the question deeper, however, it’s been almost thirteen years since she has experienced a moment like this—her hands calm, mind clear and unworried, and her heart palpitating at a casual, mostly even pace. When she fled to the wilder parts of New York, traveling far from the city that had first welcomed her to this new life, she believed she had left her past behind and with it the turmoil of obsessive vengeance, clearly, however, she was mistaken. Yet now that she’s in this moment, arm linked with Vision and the sun overhead, surrounded by people who are not outwardly staring or crossing themselves, she’s at peace. She squeezes his arm, relishing the small smile he gives her, “It is.” 

They stop walking eventually, the stalls behind them and a small, intricately crafted and easily recognizable carriage in front of them, “I-” the reality of the situation only becomes apparent when Vision eases his arm away, opening the door of the carriage to place the basket inside before turning back to her, hands clasped at his waist, “thank you for joining me today.” 

Wanda almost succeeds at not rolling her eyes at the supposition that she wouldn’t have spent the afternoon with him, “Of course, Vision. When-,” they had not spoken of anything beyond this first meeting, a tentative agreement to explore whether or not this would become a regular occurrence, and now that he’s leaving, Wanda knows what she hopes will be the conclusion of the experiment.  Regardless of her wants, there are two people involved, her powers snaking through her body, tempting her with the offer of an easy way to establish if he feels the same, but she clenches her fingers, determined not to resort to such measures. Wanda proceeds with what she hopes is a casual, unconcerned tone, “Do you think you’ll be frequenting this market?” 

Vision allows his eyes to roam over the small cluster of people and haphazardly built wooden stalls filled with vibrant fare. “I believe it has some merit,” words that send her heart into a maddening rhythm, one that increases at an alarming rate when he looks at her. “Unfortunately,” Wanda’s eyes narrow at the term, defeat harshly pulling her heart back into place, “the carrots are much better up in Schenectady, though,” the twisting of his sentence is dragging her through far too many emotions, the one most prevalent now is hope, anchored both on his word and the shy upturn of his mouth, “the company here is far preferable.” 

“Well there is more to see here than the market,” a fairly empty comment as there is the market, the lumber mill, one tavern, and the ravine, none of which are particularly out of the ordinary. 

Vision glances back towards the market, “I was thinking,” his uncertain gaze slides back to her, “instead, that perhaps I might make good on my promise to teach you paille maille.” 

“I believe that is an acceptable alternative.” 

Elation threatens to break the seam of his polite lips, “Then I will see you next week.”   

Wanda steps back, watching him climb into the carriage and waving as he pulls away. It’s only once he is out of view that a full-bodied grin erupts on her face, her mind already lost in the future.

 

 

The sun glints off the metal hoop half buried in the ground, it is idle, nothing changing about its position or size and yet it taunts her.  Wanda squints, readjusting her feet to be just a tad farther apart, knees bent slightly, hands wrapped firmly, but not too firmly, around the handle of her mallet. Off to the side, just barely in her periphery, she can sense an underlying flicker of cockiness in Vision’s silence, two games already down and she has not once gotten close to the hoop before him, something he keeps reassuring her is nothing to be upset about, a sentiment that would be more believable if his thrill at being victorious was not so loudly pouring from his mind. The last game she hit the ball too hard, sending it careening into the tall grass beyond their makeshift alley.  This time she is utilizing a strategy of incremental, easy hops. Her arms lift back as the head of the mallet rises behind her and then it falls with a swish through the grass, sending the ball in a small arc before it bounces and rolls to lay about a foot in front of the hoop. Satisfaction fills her arms as she swings the mallet up in front of her, bringing the head to rest proudly on her shoulder.

“That was a respectable hit.”

The satisfaction crumbles into a glare, “You can stop gloating.”

It is late in the morning and yet it is already stifling, not even the shade from the tree providing a reprieve from the summer’s attack, a day that would be perfect for a dip in the lake, a thought that instantly leads to a sharp guilt as she watches Vision frown at her comment. “I am being sincere,” the surest sign of the heat is the sight of Vision sans coat and hat, though he is still in a waistcoat and shirt buttoned all the way to the top, cinched shut with a bow tie. His mallet hovers in the air, directing her attention towards the two charcoal colored balls in the grass, “You have utilized a classic block to ensure a win is not feasible on my next turn.”

“Well that was definitely the intent,” Wanda finds her entertainment at discovering his latent competitiveness outweighing her annoyance at the thinly veiled dubiousness on his face. What does not surprise her is the utter seriousness of his gameplay, every turn he walks around his ball at least three times, scrutinizing its position relative to the hoop, currently he is using his mallet to steady himself as he lowers into a squat, torso moving left and then right as he studies the predicament of her block. “You can concede my victory, if you want.”

“I believe,” he stands with a deliberate slowness, a wince occurring as he straightens his legs, “I shall attempt to persevere for a bit longer.”  One last assessment of the area and Vision nods, strolling up to his ball, mallet lining up just right of the sphere, a couple of practice swings confirm the strength and angle of his shot, and then he moves slightly, body crouching, fingers opening and then closing until his grip is perfect, and with ease he sends his ball rolling across the ground and straight into hers, sending it flying into the trunk of a tree.

“What was that, you hornswoggler***?”

A breathy laugh meets her words, his unabashed amusement in the face of dirty actions threatening to consume her own irritation. “Nothing in the rules prohibits such actions.”

The only rules she was made aware of were that they each get one hit per turn, must stay (as best they can) within the bounds of the course, and that the ball must enter the hoop from the front to win. “How convenient to leave that out.”

“It is far more important to develop the basic skills,” his face attempts to remain serious in light of his surging glee at continued domination in the game, “before introducing the intricacies of the gameplay.”

This development radically changes her perceptions of the sport and her own strategy, a wicked smirk forming on her face as she pokes the tip of her pole against the top button of his waistcoat. “Pride goeth before destruction, Vision.” Despite his face remaining neutral, even tipping towards good-natured, she does not miss the ripple of worry from his mind nor the intrigue as he watches her saunter towards the tree.

Her elbow rubs against the rough bark of the oak, one foot on a protruding root and the other on the ground. It seems impossible to recover from such a disadvantaged spot, but she reasons if interference is allowed then a small utilization of her own unique skills could fall under that rule. She notes the way Vision squints at her, the sun peaking above the tree to obscure his sight, another advantage as she sends a mist of scarlet into the ball. A hard swing and a flick of her wrist and her ball soars through the air, thudding into the dry soil just to the left of the crisscrossed surface of Vision’s ball.

There is no _respectable hit_ this time, just a glower, a suspicious stare, and his brow wrinkling at the turn in gameplay. “Interference,” he explains, feet uncertain where to go with her ball directly in his path, “during the other player’s turn is prohibited.”

“Understood.”

An ungentlemanly sigh accompanies his decision to switch sides, hands rearranging along the mallet to adjust to the change in approach, his stance significantly less confident than before. Wanda is prepared for a conveniently strong wind to knock his ball off its path, but finds such interference unneeded, his shot too weak to reach the hoop. Vision waves his mallet towards her, a silent, somewhat sour invitation to finish the game.

The path to victory is unobscured, a bit farther of a distance than she would like, her accuracy still a work in progress, but it is likely the only chance she’ll get.  Wanda lines up, striving to ignore the intensely focused stare of her opponent, her powers surging through her arms in preparation if things go poorly, and smacks the mallet against the ball, watching it hop with each bump in the ground, its course going exactly as planned until it unexpectedly hits a particularly large rock sending it in the opposite direction of the metal hoop. Anger boils in her chest at her slow reaction, knowing if she uses her powers now it will be too obvious. “I guess you’ll be victorious yet again.”

Vision frowns, eyes flicking down at the sure victory. The moral thing to do is end the torment quickly and painlessly, something he has done quite willingly in the other matches. This time, however, he seems less ecstatic in his movements, still taking the same conscientious assessment and body position as his other turns, but he hesitates. “Vision.” It does not take a mind reader or a soothsayer to predict his considered action, her voice stern in redirecting him away from such perceived chivalry, “I don’t need your charity.” An understanding nod precedes his hit, the ball easily rolling through the hoop. “Congratulations.”

“Wanda, wait,” Wanda pauses mid-bend, her hand hovering over the etched surface of her ball, “I think it would be beneficial for you to continue, your long game is quite commendable,” there is no underlying sarcasm here, a fact that makes the day feel just a touch hotter, “but your short game is absent finesse.”

“Oh? What would you suggest?”

“Please,” he waves towards her ball, “set yourself up as you have been doing.” Wanda plays along, feet out wide and elbows bent, eyes focused on him as she waits for feedback. “This is excellent for a long range shot but for a shorter distance your feet need to be closer,” her boots shuffle towards each other while Vision hovers several feet away, gesticulating with his mallet to emphasize his instructions, “Your right foot should be a bit more forward,” she adjusts her foot, “good, now your right shoulder needs to rotate roughly,” he swivels his own shoulders, assessing the amount of movement and positioning, before providing her directions, “fifteen degrees to match your foot.”  

Wanda relaxes her body as she follows his instructions, “Better?”

“A bit more,” she acquiesces, “too much,” she brings her shoulder back, “no I—” she can sense the division in his mind, whether to remain at a respectable distance (despite the lack of onlookers) or come closer. It’s been a battle he’s been waging all day, the lack of socially acceptable reasons to be close always infuriatingly pulling him away. This time she decides to determine the outcome for him by purposely over-rotating her shoulders. Vision grimaces at her correction, “Not quite—”

Wanda strives to remain outwardly attentive yet aloof, laying the final steps of her war plan. “You can come closer, if that would help.”

Discreetly he scans their surroundings for an audience before placing his mallet on the ground, stepping forward, and puncturing the bubble of propriety, his body a foot away now, hands timidly held in the air, acting as if they have never touched, that she has not held his hand, nor run her fingers along his skin, that he himself did not wrap his hands around her waist and pull her close. But to acknowledge those moments would require them to rip open barely healed wounds, and there has been a silent contract between them to simply enjoy these meetings, pushing back any reckoning and unanswered questions for another time. “May I?”

As much as she wishes to act like he is alone in this nervousness, the question causes her heart to betray her attempt at self-control, face growing hotter as if the temperature of the day is controlled by the nearness of his hands. “Of course.”

His fingers curl around her upper arms, applying a slight pressure to turn her body. Wanda tries to remain relaxed in his grip despite the fluttering tingle overtaking her being while her eyes scan his features, mesmerized at the wind stirring the hairs just above his ears. “There,” the comfort of his touch vanishes and Wanda considers ruining her stance to bring him back but he moves away from her too quickly. “Now you should be focusing on a point just beyond the hoop.” Advice he gave her at the very beginning of their time together, a task that should be easy yet the rustle of his clothing behind her and the proximity of his person is distracting. “I have-Wanda remember to keep your eyes beyond the hoop.”

“Sorry.”

“I have my hand up behind you,” a statement that tempts her eyes but she resists, keeping her attention on the ground while his voice fills the air around her, “on your backswing go until you’ve touched my palm and then let the mallet fall naturally, like a pendulum.”

She doesn’t want to potentially hurt him and so she uses a painstakingly slow pace to lift the mallet, each slight increase in its ascent feels enormous until she finally meets resistance. “So just let it go?”

“Yes, and let your body follow.” She does, arms falling along the arc of the mallet and her hips swiveling slightly at the momentum and they both watch as the ball rolls into the hoop. “Soon,” Wanda turns excitedly towards him, surprised to find him directly behind her, the right side of his mouth wistfully tilted up, “you will be unstoppable and I will need to retire.”

Wanda returns the smile while bringing the handle of the mallet between them, offering it to him, “So would you like to test that prediction?”

“A very tempting offer.” 

“But?” 

“But,” he dips his hand into the small pocket of his waistcoat, thumb clicking open his pocket watch, “I promised Mr. Stark I would be back by sundown and I need to go to Rensselaer before returning.” 

A cloud of scarlet forms in her hands, fingers directing strands to engulf the equipment, drawing the objects to levitate next to them. She is acutely aware of his undivided attention and the way his eyes move with the sway of her powers—intrigued and unafraid, no trace of hesitation as he reaches into the red mist to grab the mallets in one hand and the balls in the other, leaving the hoop for her. There is a tiny smile on his face, the quality of which is different from his others, it is still polite, but almost, if she were to allow a small flight of fancy, adoring. “What?” 

Vision’s shoulders inch up and then drop, the smile disappearing as he talks, though the tone of his voice maintains its effervescent character, “I have found myself contemplating” now he slides back into his typical reserved staccato, “almost daily the efficiency your abilities would add to my work, it’s um,” and now the confession falters, his eyes desperately searching her face for some sign he has not offended her, “not to diminish the—” 

Her powers are a curse, a reminder of all she has experienced, the death of her parents, of her brother, her descent into an unforgivable life, and yet here is someone who sees none of that, considers her powers fascinating and efficient whilst glossing over the horror they have caused to his own life. The scarlet rescinds into her palms, sparking lightly at her fingers. Perhaps it is time to consider reorienting her own views, embracing instead of fearing what is inside her. “It is quite useful,” she closes her hands around the hoop, fully extinguishing her powers and with them the conversation as she parts from him, guiding him down the path back to his carriage, “You are very good at paille maille.” 

“Yes, only because I have the advantage of experience. Mr. Stark and I,” Vision keeps his eyes forward as he answers, “play at least three times a week and I also,” now the surety of his voice lessens, gaze never leaving the gentle slope of the mountains ahead of them, “played competitively while at university.” 

The image of this other version of him is hazy in her mind, a specter of a lost time she has no expectations of ever knowing. “You know you don’t have to tell me about,” she’s not sure what to say, if she means the person he was or the life he had, “if you’d rather not dwell on the past, you aren’t obligated to share.” 

He finally glances at her, his pace slowing moderately, a contemplative silence descending around them. “I truly appreciate that, Wanda.” A tight, painfully mannered smile follows along with the statement. “But I feel disingenuous, given your knowledge, to not share when the information is pertinent.” 

“Thank you for sharing,” the persistent downturn of his features is enough motivation to offer a slightly new focus, “now that I know your expertise, I think it will be my mission to best you next week.” 

Vision doesn’t smile but his lips do return to the equilibrium of neutrality, “I suppose I should leave these,” he holds his hands out to show her the equipment, “for you to practice and, in your favor, Mr. Stark and I will actually be out of town for several weeks, thus you will have ample time to improve.” 

Her feet stop moving as she turns towards him, “You’re leaving?” 

“Yes,” when her stare does not move, Vision swivels to face her, an apologetic, apprehensive slant to his features, “Mr. Stark and I are traveling to New York City next week for the Exhibition of Industry-” 

His admittance from the market floats up from her memories. “Is that why you’ve been working late at night?” 

“Yes, and all the traversing,” something she wondered about as well, each time they’ve met he’s mentioned numerous towns in the area, but nothing in all the time she has known him indicated his job required much traveling beyond the closest market. “We,” he shifts his arms to counteract the awkward grip he has on the mallets and balls, “well, Mr. Stark, will be bringing three inventions, he is even tasked with performing the opening demonstration for the Exhibition.” 

Wanda can’t contain her scoff at this information, “As if he is not self-absorbed enough.” 

A commiserate and exasperated chuckle meets her words, “Yes, he has required me to watch his performance numerous times, it is unnecessarily showy, in my opinion.” 

It seems wrong for Vision to go, though why, exactly is beyond her grasp of comprehension, or at least, a reason beyond her own selfish desire to spend time with him. If she recalls correctly, Stark returned from the city while she was at the manor, a seemingly clear precedent of traveling alone, a fact that feels pertinent and separate from her own reasons for being upset at the journey. “Why is he forcing you to go?” 

Vision’s face falls at her choice of words. “Mr. Stark wishes to have my expertise in case any of the circuitry malfunctions.” A reasonable explanation, though she would expect no less from the man in front of her.  “I was hoping,” he shifts his body along with the movement of the conversation, eyes glancing towards his carriage down the path, an apparent discomfort at leaving with her annoyed, “if you were amenable, that I might visit before I leave.” 

Wanda scrutinizes him, taking in the slight hunch of his shoulders and the crystalline blue of his eyes in the sun, “Yes,” the effect of assent on his features is rapid, body straightening out while becoming slightly less rigid and a softness overtaking his eyes, “Vision, you are always welcome.”  

 

 

Wanda rushes between the lines of laundry hanging behind the house, hands plucking sheets and shoving them into a bag while her powers yank down the few skirts and blouses she has amassed to form a new, measly wardrobe, which is why she’ll be damned if they are ruined in this storm.  She has never lived on a homestead like this, her meager earnings from fortune telling typically affording her a bed in a shared room, at most a single room in a larger tenement, but now she finds herself with space, a small wooden home, sparsely furnished with an actual bedroom, a one stall stable, and a coop she has yet to fill. It is too much, or should be, no one has come to collect payments and Vision tactfully avoids the topic each time it is raised. She doesn’t push him too much though, worried the truth may force her to give this up and the freedom of solitude is far too exquisite, waking to the whisper of the earth each morning a wonderful influence on her mental tranquility. The only downside, so far, to her separation from people, is during moments like now, the sky growing dark, grumbling in the distance as the wind picks up, sending the trees into a shiver. 

She finishes her task, rushing to the porch as a peel of thunder rattles the wooden posts holding up the roof and the sky opens. Her breathing evens out now that she’s protected, heart returning to a normal level that brings it to be just slower than the beat of the raindrops. 

A faint rumble rises from just beyond the hill, too rhythmic and hurried to be from the sky, the likely culprit a carriage, but that seems ludicrous in such weather. Wanda walks to the end of the porch, her hands wrapping tightly around the bag at her hip as her eyes strain to make out any movement through the curtain of water.  No one ever approaches from this direction, the town of Normanskill itself a quarter of a mile south of her, and there are other, better roads to travel for traders who wish to go to the town center. A scowl drags her mouth down, eyes widening when the idiotic traveler crests the hill. She drops the bag immediately, marching to the center of the porch as the carriage pulls up, her voice loud and failing utterly at keeping her worried fury contained, “Vision, are you an imbecile?” 

“Yes,” the tremble in his voice is clear even above the thunder, “may I please use your stable?” 

How he insists on remaining socially respectable confounds and infuriates her, scarlet oozing from her hands as she points at him, “Get down and come inside,” he begins to gesture towards the stable, “now!” 

Hurriedly, and quite uncivilly, he scrambles down from the carriage, four loping steps bring him onto the porch. “Wanda, I—” 

Her hands connect with his back, shoving him towards the open doorway and away from the rain starting to blow sideways into the porch, “Inside.” Thankfully the horse is docile as Wanda leads it through the rain, whinnying softly in what she assumes is contentment once it is safely inside the stable. She turns towards the downpour, fists clenched and pulsing with red.

Wanda stomps through the collecting puddles, the edge of her skirt soaking up the water almost as fast as her blouse, but she doesn’t care, her attention honed in on the worried fluctuations of Vision’s mind. He is standing in the middle of the room, hat rotating in an uneasy circle between his fingers, far enough from the door to escape the stray drops coming in but still close enough to watch her approach. A polite host (or so she’s gathered from watching people at her séances) always offers to free a guest of unnecessary clothing, doubtfully, however, by sheathing a hat in scarlet, roughly tearing it from his hands, and tossing it on the table. “What were you thinking?” 

“In my defense,” statements starting as such are not what she wants to hear as she circles around him, not caring if he views her actions as untoward when she runs her hands along his jacket to assess its saturation, “it was a pleasant day when I left this morning.” 

“Your jacket is soaking.” 

Vision is already unbuttoning his jacket before she finishes the sentence, hands moving automatically as he continues to explain his abhorrent decision making, “I had to go to Clarksville to collect a number of custom welded parts,” he slips his arms out of the jacket and Wanda grabs it with her powers, sending it to hang on a hook in the wall, “it was not until I was several miles from the town that the weather grew menacing.” She walks around him, palms skimming the silk back of his waistcoat before transitioning to the textured brocade of the front, the cloth only mildly damp in some places, “By then I had three options, I could return to Clarksville, I could pull off to the side of the road and sit inside the carriage with the machinery, or I knew you were equidistant to me as was Clarksville.” The explanation, of course, makes sense, his rationale fairly seamless and lacking any sign of illogic despite still being foolish, “Miss Maximoff.” 

“What?” 

There is a gorgeous smile on his face, one so at odds with the anxiety strangling her mind that it holds her body in stasis, “Are you done undressing me yet?” 

“I—” Wanda looks down, somewhat horrified at catching her fingers actively undoing the last button of his waistcoat, a blush searing along her neck at the realization, but she collects herself, sliding the button confidently through its hole while adjusting her tone to match the merriment in his eyes, “Depends, do your gas pipes**** need to come off too?” 

Her forwardness seems to stun him, eyes widening, brows arching, and what might even be a pinkish tinge forming on his cheekbones as he stutters out a weak retort, “I do not believe that is necessary, I was barely in the rain.” He steps back, breaking her contact with him, regaining some semblance of control and rigor over his voice, and finishes removing the vest, his eyes never leaving her. “If it is acceptable to be concerned about clothing, then might I suggest you change as well.” 

“What...” Now that he seems fine, not a trace of concern or fear left in his mind, all wet articles of clothing removed (at least the ones he is willing to part with), Wanda becomes keenly aware of her own dripping garments and the feel of wet hair falling out of her usually tight bun. “I’ll be right back, please um, get comfortable.” 

When she returns to him, clothing blissfully dry and her damp hair loose, he is still standing in the center of the room, absentmindedly plucking his gloves off while his eyes roam over the minimal decor—a table with three chairs, a small cabinet where she keeps her dry food and cookery, a hearth, and a two-seat settee. What she had considered spacious now feels dreadfully inadequate under his inspection. “It’s not a manor.” 

Vision turns to her, confusion marring his forehead at her apologetic tone, “It is perfectly adequate. I apologize for imposing on you, I am certain you had other things—” 

“Vision,” one cycle of apologies is already too many, whatever her afternoon was going to entail, this is far preferable, “I told you, you are always welcome.” Vision is not her first guest, that honor went to Clint and his eldest son, Cooper, the other week, but where that visit felt easy with little expectation of cordial etiquette, Wanda now realizes she has no notion at how, precisely, to host someone who knows every last rule for such things. She is, however, fairly sure that standing in the middle of a room staring at one another is not considered acceptable. “Would you like to sit?” 

The options are limited, his eyes first moving to the couch but that, she has already reckoned, would require their legs to touch, and thus she isn’t surprised, maybe a touch disappointed, when he takes a seat at the table. “Will you join me?” 

“Of course,” Wanda is aware the appropriate seat to take is the one across from him, an innocuous distance for respectable interactions, which is why she bypasses the chair, settling herself at the head of the table, her feet knocking lightly against his as she adjusts to be comfortable. Now that they’re close, the threat of the weather kept at bay by the walls around them, she can see the exhaustion manifesting in darkening circles beneath his eyes, even his body is less poised, leaning forward with his hands on the table. “So,” his hands are actually on the table, no gloves present nor is he shoving them in his pockets, and it sends a thrill down her spine to know he feels this level of comfort around her.

“My apologies.” 

Vision’s hands begin to retreat, but she reaches out, trapping them in a tentative embrace. “No,” the fact he has not flinched nor attempted to remove himself from her grip encourages her to remain touching him, a firm, earnest squeeze hopefully conveying her gratitude at his openness, “I’m sorry for staring.” 

Vision nods, a perceptive smile on his lips as he returns the squeeze, absolving her misstep.  “It is fine.” 

 “Tell me,” Wanda sits back, reluctantly pulling her hand from his, not wanting to cause him too much social discomfort at the onset of their gathering, “what is so important about this exhibition that Stark is fine putting you in danger?” 

The light jab at Stark is artfully sidestepped with a raised eyebrow of dissent, nothing more. “It is an event to showcase the industrial advancements from around the world. Mr. Stark attended the Great Exhibition two years ago in London.” 

“Did you go as well?” 

Vision threads his fingers together, a melancholic air instilling his actions, “I journeyed with him, otherwise I would have had to forgo my treatments and, well, at that point I had finally managed to walk properly and,” the pause in his thought is deafening and she desperately wants to find something to say, yet her own tongue is silent. Vision shakes his head, a small movement not even strong enough to stir his hair, “but I did not attend the actual exhibition, thankfully, as Mr. Stark was approached by several of my prior contemporaries. It sounded marvelous, however, so much so that once we returned Mr. Stark immediately formed a coalition amongst several private businesses and now,” he waves his hands much like she’s seen mesmerists do when the finale has concluded in their show, though Vision’s is less expressive and showy, “the Exhibition starts on the 14th, even President Pierce will be there.” 

“I don’t view that as a selling point.” 

This receives a deep laugh, one she knows would never occur outside the freedom of their current privacy just as the unfettered delight in his voice would be silenced if just one more person were present, “Mr. Stark is actually hosting a private soirée at the same time as the President’s in protest of his tacit support for the anti-abolitionists.” 

An entertaining fact, one that won’t change her view of Stark, only reaffirming the extraordinary protection of wealth. People will no doubt laugh at Stark, roll their eyes and whisper about the eccentric millionaire whereas if she were seen at such an event, her deportation would be imminent, a concern that shifts to the man next to her, “Are you attending that?” 

“No,” the strength and immediacy of his answer is reassuring, “I purposefully remain at a distance from such topics in public. My only occupational requirements for this trip are Mr. Stark’s inventions and upkeep of Stark Tower.” An imposing structure, one of the only buildings in the city over five stories and one she has possibly cursed at several times in passing. “I have also been ordered,” a word she loathes and almost comments on until he smiles broadly, “to take personal time and enjoy the Exhibition.” 

“Good,” she matches his grin, fighting the temptation to reach out and touch his hand again, “You work too hard for that man.” 

Another avoidance of her commentary changes the focus of their conversation, “How is your business?” A topic they have danced around, for the most part, one that veers them awfully close to thoughts they’ve kept prohibited from their time together. 

“Um,” the easiest tactic is to mirror Vision, avoid it with a wave of a hand or a subtle shift back to him, yet that would only continue them down a road of leaving things that might need to be said unsaid and she doesn’t want that as a cornerstone of their relationship, whatever that relationship may be. “Poorly, actually,” Vision sits up straighter, concern overtaking every inch of his face, “they don’t seem terribly interested in palm readings.” 

His mouth opens, then shuts, a finger raised to ask for a moment’s patience and she watches him stand, walk to where his coat is hanging and rifle through the inside pockets until he pulls out a box and a small, leather bound notebook. “Would it help,” apprehension fills his movements as he returns to his seat, laying the easily recognizable box on the table, “if you could expand your offerings?” 

“How long have you been carrying those around?”

Carefully he opens the lid of the box, removing the cards in two stacks before placing them on the table, his eyes never quite meeting hers, “Since you refused to take them, I, um,” he fiddles with the notebook now, flipping the pages back and forth, showing her the meticulous lines of his writing, “have been transcribing the cards during my downtime and thought you or we—” 

When he first offered her this gift it instilled in her an anger, her refusal predicated on not wanting to think of him whenever she used the tarot cards, of needing to throw away all memory of her time at the manor. Perceptions can shift, however, quite swiftly and strongly, a burgeoning excitement now racing through her body at the thoughtfulness of the action. “You want me to write the Sokovian next to each one.” 

“Yes.” The syllable is drawn out as both a statement and a question, his plan predicated on her agreement and also her ability to write, something that is not a guarantee for individuals of their backgrounds. Luckily her parents were strong advocates of education, insisting she and Pietro spend extra time at the synagogue each week to learn all they could. 

Wanda reaches out, drawing the notebook towards her, “Do you have anything to write with?” Another raised finger and another journey to his coat concludes in her holding an intricate metal fountain pen*****, “Okay,” she tests the pen on the paper, impressed at the smoothness of the writing, “what’s first?” 

Slowly he turns each card, reading her the words at the bottom and then showing her where on the sheet he has it written, his face remaining close to hers as he watches her, an inquisitiveness filling his mind at the translations. The whole activity is calming, diversions peppered throughout as he asks her some interpretations. Apparently, he has been reading about the practice of tarot, finding the disproportionate numbers of alternative meanings alarming. It’s as they move from the major arcana to the cups, that his next line of questioning begins, “Wanda.” 

“Yes?” 

Vision stares at a card, lips pursed and eyes distant in thought, “Did you know English, before immigrating?” 

She’d been expecting another spirited debate on whether a reversed card should be interpreted differently from its usual meaning, not a step into her past, but she obliges, not wanting to be disingenuous, as Vision himself argued the other day, by denying such information. “None, I learned it to survive once I got here.” Amazement bursts from his mind, procuring a small half smile from her, encouraging her to share a bit more. “I actually,” at the time she found the method demoralizing, only in retrospect is she able to accept the somewhat humorous methods of her early months in the city, “I would have to mime what I wanted, sometimes I would resort to clucking to buy chicken.” 

“I never,” he pauses, words escaping him as he looks at her, admiration clear in his features, one she doesn’t particularly feel she deserves, “It must have been quite difficult.” 

Wanda nods at the understatement, “It was, fortunately after several months I ended up renting a room from a couple who were kind enough to teach me.” 

The information is factual, surface level, which means the deep contemplation on his face spurs the nervousness growing in her stomach, she has no issue being truthful, but she is worried that too much truth might lead to an irreparable judgment of her.  Wanda stands, channeling her nerves into ambling towards the window to confirm the rain is still falling. When she turns back he is watching her, head cocked to the side and his face serious, “Why did you leave Sokovia?” 

The tapestry of her life is stitched in a complicated pattern, not one thread able to tell the entire story, yet all it might take to unravel the deeply buried secrets of her life is a tug of gentle, earnest curiosity in a tantalizing accent. She needs time to determine what to say, her mind having been consumed with how he would view her simply based on the séance that she devoted little of her cogitation to explaining the rest, justifying the unjustifiable so as not to scare him away. This, she realizes, is a weakness she had avoided since Pietro died, a strong and unwavering commitment to never grow attached or settle roots. How she allowed it to happen is concerning, but not enough to run just yet, the promise of something more buried in his eyes incredibly alluring.  “Are you hungry?”

Vision blinks rapidly, half rising out of his chair as he responds, “I suppose I could eat, may I help with anything?” 

“You can sit,” he’s too kind, too honest, too genuine for her, “I only have bread and cheese inside, not much to prepare.” The cabinet door blocks her from his sight, his attention stifling in a way that is both desirable and terrifying, her heart torn between celebrating his interest and fleeing into the night. The latter option is not actually considered because she knows he’d follow and she won’t do that to him twice. Wanda returns to the table with two tin plates, no ornate designs or even shiny surfaces to compare to what she used at the manor. She lights a lantern, turning the knob to illuminate the tabletop as the sun sets. “So why Vision?” 

“Pardon?” 

Wanda nibbles on her bread, the diversion faltering already, “Why did you choose Vision for your name?” 

His gaze is wary, a flash of hurt at her redirection, but unlike her he answers, keeping it brief yet informative. “Whenever Mr. Stark was explaining the procedures and the results of my surgeries, the one thing he kept saying to me as reassurance whenever I wanted to give up, was that I was a vision of the future of medicine. If this worked for me, think of how many others could be helped by the same procedure.” He shrugs, eyes turned down towards the plate. “It felt appropriate to assume that as my identity, merely a vision, nothing more.” 

“You are far more than that.” 

A small smile dismisses the affirmation, leaving them to eat in silence, the air around them growing more humid as the rain continues, even the small movement of eating a piece of bread meeting resistance. It is not the weather, however, that Wanda finds most uncomfortable, that causes her lungs to malfunction and her breathing to be labored, no it is that his question hangs in the air despite his politeness to not repeat it. If she wants to lose him, to return to a life of no ties then she should remain silent. “I left Sokovia because I literally had nothing left there.” Empathy curves his mouth down, his food forgotten as he stares at her. “After my parents died, my brother,” she corrects herself, deciding it isn’t worth minimizing the uniqueness of the experience nor the striking pain of losing the other half of her soul, “My twin, Pietro, we survived for many years, odd jobs and some stealing,” she pauses, gauging his response to the minor crime of survival but nothing changes, his gaze unmoving and his mind is calm with openness to hear her experience. “I told you that I volunteered for the procedure for,” Wanda sets her hand ablaze. 

“Yes, you did.” 

“Pietro was with me, he went through it too.” 

The first crack in his visage occurs, a wrinkle protruding from his forehead. “Why?” 

Wanda has asked herself this question numerous times, both with Pietro and after, nothing ever feeling wholly right but that assumes all behavior makes perfect sense. “It paid well,” so well that it wasn’t until she moved to upstate New York that she ran out of the money saved from their trials, “really well, on purpose, I assume, to tempt vulnerable people into the program.” The next part of their motivation is stronger than the money, a firmer, more, in her mind, logical reason for their willingness to be turned into monsters, “They also promised employment if you made it through the experiments,” but she can’t bring herself to tell him the whole truth of this employment, of the guarantee of revenge instilled in their duties. 

“Did they tell you beforehand what they were doing?” 

“No.” 

The empathy fades into an irritation, one that keeps descending into anger, his voice hardened, “That is despicable, that is malign manipulation.” 

There is no denying his statement, his anger mirrored in herself as well. “It was,” she and Pietro almost left after the first round of surgeries, the pain immense, debilitating, but with each procedure and each advancement in the program, with each person that died instead of them, the money increased. “But that’s not the worst of it.” She takes his horrified silence as acquiescence to continue, “After they were done we moved back to Novi Grad, were able to afford an apartment, could eat full meals every meal.” 

“Wanda, what happened?” It’s whispered, tentative, almost regretful, but he won’t look away, desperate to show her he is listening. 

She already told him of Stark’s swift removal from Sokovia, the lasting impact it had on the economy which became a major factor in the way their country responded to other regional events, “There was unrest, rumors of revolutions in the other territories of the Empire*****,” she remembers Pietro’s face when they heard of the German resistance and then of the uprisings in Prague, his heart drumming even faster than his feet at the notion of leading a revolt in their own collapsing city. “Hungary had just changed laws, restricted our language, our trade abilities, our religion.” As the tensions rose in the city, they were instructed to keep a low profile while in public, use of their abilities prohibited unless they were on official business for the Baron, but Pietro started pushing back, questioning why he could not use his speed to help his country. “People were angry and superstitious and ready to fight.” It was a fire in a hospital, people whispered that the Austrian army started it, others said it was Sokovian rebels, regardless of the arsonist, she and Pietro determined they had to help. “Someone saw me use my powers to save a woman from a fire.” Wanda can feel tears on her cheeks, a shaky inhale doing nothing to steady the quiver of her voice, and she finds she can’t look at him any longer, can’t handle the sadness and fear in his eyes. “They accused me of being a witch, they started throwing rocks, bricks, whatever was near, and they were screaming, the crowd just kept growing. Then someone tried to shoot me. Pietro, he,” the image of his body stiffening and then folding in on itself as he fell to the ground is forever burned into her memory, the hollowness of his eyes haunt her almost as much as the fact she never got to cradle him or say goodbye, a supposedly well-meaning man yanking her from the crowd before she died too. “I couldn’t stay there without him.” She can’t hold in the sob, feels her own body crumple, mild confusion cutting through her tears when she lands against a shirt and not the table. 

Vision wraps his arms around her, hugging her close while whispering apologies into her hair, his heart pounding beneath her cheek, the metallic waft of his body bringing her gradually back to the present. She weakly attempts to break from his embrace, palms pressed against his chest as she pushes just far enough away to see his dampened eyes. “Wanda,” her name breaks in half as he says it, his arms rearranging from hugging her to tucking his elbows into his sides, his hands cupping her face, thumbs wicking away the tears crashing down her cheeks. “You,” he strokes her skin with each word, “are extraordinary.” 

The barrier of his hands makes it hard for her to vehemently shake her head, “No, I’m not.” 

A smile cracks under his tears, “You are the single most extraordinary person I have ever met.” 

“No,” he doesn’t know what he’s condoning, his basis of her character relying on partial truths that glance over the most unsavory bits of her life, “you should be terrified of me.” 

He shakes his head, denying her statement without reservation, “I have no reason to be fearful of you, Wanda.” 

“I don’t believe that.” 

“If you truly doubt the veracity of my statement,” it is almost painful, the loss of his hands on her face until he reaches down and grabs her shaking hand, guiding it to his cheek, “you are always welcome to look for yourself.” 

Only Pietro ever gave such a statement, this level of trust unwarranted, misguided, and exceptionally foolish. It is possible he misunderstands the breadth of his offer. “You’re aware you are giving me permission to access your thoughts at any time?” 

“Yes,” his eyes light up, beckoning her into her head. “I have faith you will do so judiciously.” 

It is very tempting to dive in, feel the soothing rhythm of his orderly thoughts, but she can’t, not without confirming he truly understands his offer. “How?” 

He repeats his earlier sentiment, as if it should be readily assumed and unquestionable, “There is no reason for me to distrust your intentions towards me.” 

“You have every reason to distrust me.” 

“No,” the joy fades from his eyes, replaced by a steadfast certainty and strength that stirs a fire in her chest at how seamlessly his devotion and single-mindedness transfers to her. “I will concede that Mr. Stark has every reason to distrust you,” truer words have possibly never been spoken, “but, I do not.” 

“Vision.” 

He does not allow her to counter him yet, “Did you harm me? Yes, immensely,” an admission that causes her to wince, “but it was done inadvertently. I understand and respect your disdain towards Stark though I do not condone your actions,” a fact he has made clear in his avoidance of her demeaning remarks towards the man. “Yet I also believe that relying only on the worst aspects of behavior and negating the good can lead to illogically prejudiced beliefs. Thus,” Vision bends his head to make sure their eyes are level, the brilliant blue of his eyes sparkling in the light of the lantern, “it seems reasonable to separate your treatment and beliefs of Stark from your view of me. Or am I wrong in my assumption?” 

How she found this man must involve sorcery or kismet—kindness, understanding, and a propensity to forgive an uncommon match. “You are nothing like Stark.” 

He places his hand over hers, his face almost as confident as it was during paille maille except for a tenderness in his eyes, one that seems to melt her resolve and give in to the sensation of being two souls swirling together by the flickering light of a dying lantern. “That only confirms my point, you have never harbored animosity towards me. Even after you learned my own secrets, nothing changed. You treat me with the same respect and you still insist on challenging my views instead of reaffirming my place in this world.” 

“Some of your views are terribly askew.” 

His laughter is joyous, twining through her being, igniting her soul, “Yes, I have discovered my ignorance now.” 

Wanda wiggles her thumb free from the cocoon of his hand, running it along his cheek, enthralled at the effect it has, his eyes closing and she realizes how close they are, how all it would take is to lean forward and shatter the last boundary of propriety.  It is immensely tempting, not just to test the waters of mutual affection but to also eschew sleep, stay wrapped in his honeyed voice, allow his subdued laughter and intense gaze to consume her body, but she knows he has barely slept, worries this closeness is a mixture of empathy, exhaustion, and politeness.  “It is quite late.” 

Vision’s mouth dips at her statement, the disappointment in his eyes is painful, but far more excruciating is the moment he leans back, severing their connection as he pats his hands against his chest. A tendril of scarlet leaves her hand retrieving the pocket watch from his discarded waistcoat. His frown deepens when he clicks open the lid. “It is very late.” He tries hard to make the statement sound authoritative, yet his own remorse at confirming the undeniable truth causes a quivering hesitation to shake the words.  A moment later Vision stands, slightly uneven strides bringing him to the door where he examines the pitch black night that no longer rings with rain. “The tavern has beds, correct?" 

“You can’t seriously think it's a good idea to travel now.” 

Despite the gradual easing of his behaviors and the loosening of his resolve to remain proper at all times, the overall influence of his deeply ingrained manners is still strong. “I do not wish to impose further.”  

“You can stay.” 

Her words draw him two steps back into the room, though his face is still not wholly convinced of accepting the offer. “What will people think, if I stay?” The concern in his voice isn’t for him, but for the flimsy social code that polices behavior, particularly against women if there is any blame to be had. 

Wanda shrugs, “No one knows you’re here, Vision. And if they find out,” she channels her own fluttering nervousness at the possibility of staying with him longer into a feigned nonchalance, hoping not only to convince him to remain but to also, perhaps, decipher the true meaning of his intentions, “They will simply assume it was a bundling******”. 

“I-um, I,” 

The fact he does not outright deny it or question it, that he doesn’t ask why they would think such a thing or deem it a preposterous statement enlivens her confidence, a wry smile growing on her lips as she pushes the notion more, “I mean ever since your first visit there’s been a flurry of gossip about my handsome suitor,” a mostly accurate statement, there have been many pointed looks and some bawdy inquiries from Mrs. Meisner and the other bored ladies of a dizzy age******* “No one would mind, they might even expect it.” 

The flabbergasted expression on his face shifts, moving first to denial, then consideration, waltzing briefly with confusion, until it settles on a deeply invested gaze of scrutiny. “Does it trouble you that such prurient******** assumptions may be made?” 

The question brings her to the precipice of her wants for the future, to remain independent, alone, unattached which is safer, or to forge ahead with something new, that carries with it a high price of potential pain if it crumbles. “No.” 

He takes three more steps into the room, the door shutting behind him with an echoing thud and her heart sings at the victory. “I suppose I can stay but I insist on sleeping on the settee.” 

Wanda tamps down the rebellious urge to jostle him further by suggesting her bed, an option he’d in the best scenario laugh nervously at but decline and in the worst, say no and flee into the night. “Of course.”  They find themselves back at the beginning of his visit, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, staring and waiting for the other to set the course of what comes next. Honestly, Wanda doesn’t know what should occur, how far she can interpret his responses, whether he actually wants the people to think they are in a courtship or if he is simply falling back on politeness as he is wont to do. She gives him a curt nod and a “Goodnight, Vision,” turning towards the bedroom to place the decision in his hands. 

“Wanda?” 

The whisper of her name ties itself around her heart and pivots her back towards him, “Vision?” 

“I wanted to thank you for allowing me to stay. I-” the words are ushered out by the restless waving of his fingers and another step towards her, his eyes seemingly torn between her face and watching his hands betray his nerves, “thoroughly enjoyed your company.” 

The emphasis he puts on the _thoroughly_ seems to shrink the room around them, increasing her own awareness of how close they are standing, his even breaths echoing around her and she fears he might be able to hear the rampant drumming of her heart. Wants are dangerous things, unnecessary diversions that can only complicate life, and yet her decision earlier is only strengthened in this moment, staring up into the confused yet curious gaze of this man, of how very much she wants to be closer to him, in numerous literal and figurative ways. Wanda takes a step forward and the room shrinks even more, the space around them narrowing so much any movement, even a simple inhale, would cause them to touch. So Wanda continues, a half step forward brings her chest to brush his and a stream of scarlet from the hand at her hip helps steady her as she rises onto her toes, other hand coming to lay on his shoulder. “Me too.” The cessation of his breath and the crumbling of his calm and orderly thoughts as she presses her lips to his cheek confirms what she had hoped, that perhaps it isn’t merely civility influencing his actions. 

Wanda flashes him a demure smirk as she lowers herself back to the ground, her tongue preparing to say another good night before she sneaks away to privately relish her bravery, but the intensity of his stare gives her pause. “Vision?” His continued silence is disconcerting and a quick, hopefully unnoticed brush of his mind uncovers a fascinating phenomenon as his thoughts seem to collapse into a tight bundle of single-minded ideation. Earlier he had offered her access to his mind whenever she pleased, and now her curiosity, her desire to know his thoughts, gives her the courage to accept that offer, his breath hitching as she lays her palm to his jaw, “May I?” A silent nod grants her permission and she enters his mind.  A broad, goading grin shoves her cheeks up at what he allows her to read. “I’d very much like that.” 

It takes a moment for him to translate her consent and piece it together with her presence in his mind, but once the puzzle is complete, Vision smiles softly, bringing his hands to her face in a purposefully lazy pace, his fingertips skimming along her skin until her cheeks are cupped by his palms.  Wanda’s own smile has to defy the laws of anatomical possibility by growing wider, expanding from her mouth to fill her entire body, her hands wrapping excitedly around his wrists, the contrast between his skin and the metal captivating, and she uses her grip on him to pull herself up just as he bends down. The kiss is tender yet chaste, polite but not devoid of passion, an unspoken, ineffable rightness in the way his lips move ever so slightly against hers. Much too soon he pulls back, his thumb brushing her cheek as he stares into her eyes, flashing her a charming, spoony******** smile that she immediately reciprocates. “You know,” she grips his wrists a bit tighter, “If they believe we’re bundling already…” 

A self-conscious, though charmed, laugh meets her words; if the light was just a bit brighter she knows there’d be a blush on his face to match the one in his mind. “Goodnight, Wanda.” 

“Goodnight, Vision.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victorian Language Decoder:  
> * yard-of-pumpwater: tall and lanky man  
> **In 1853, in a small town with steady jobs, the average daily wage was between $1-$1.50  
> ***hornswaggler: cheater  
> ****gas-pipes: Pants, typically particularly tight ones, though I doubt Vision wears tight pants. I just liked the term  
> *****The fountain pen with an ink reservoir was first available in the 1700s but didn’t meet mass production until around the 1830s in England and the 1850s in the US.  
> ******During the 1840s a series of revolts started where the countries ruled under the Austrian Empire (including Germany, Austria, and most of Eastern Europe) were beginning to demand autonomy, largely encouraged by economic depression and food shortages. The first big revolts were in Poland and Germany in 1846 and then from 1846-1848 there were major uprisings in Slovakia, Romania, and Croatia (there were others but those are closest to where Sokovia would be located).  
> *******Bundling: a practice in courtship where the two people are wrapped/bundled together in bed (apparently, they were given separate blankets) and were expected to spend the evening talking (I’m sure there was lots of “talking”). It was not super common in the 1800s, but was still practiced in many places in upper NY and Pennsylvania into the late 1800s. There was actually a NY court case (Graham v. Smith, 1846) about the seduction of a 19-year-old woman, but the court was like – “What did you expect to happen when you had them bundle?!” (not a direct quote)  
> ******* Dizzy age: elderly  
> ********prurient: having or encouraging an excessive interest in sexual matters  
> *********spoony: foolishly amorous/stupid with love
> 
>  
> 
> So, I hope for slow burn lovers it was okay to have this happen here. I, myself, am horrible at maintaining slow-burn because I'm impatient and just want them to get on with it. There were two potential points in my outline for this (here or in two chapters) and I just felt like maybe they could be happy for a bit before the sledgehammer of melodrama hits next chapter. Also, 150ish single spaced pages in Word seems like a decent amount of slow burn to me :D 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this! Your kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	7. In which there is bliss and then it slips away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After learning more about Stark's plans for the Exhibition of Industry, Wanda discovers her past merging with her present as she hurries to warn Vision of impending peril.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm sorry this took so long to get out, it's a big chapter with lots of moving pieces. Hopefully not too many moving pieces...
> 
> A big shout out to my beta, Anya, for all your help on this! Thanks for always being willing to deal with my anxious and unedited emails :)
> 
> As always, I hope you all enjoy!

Wanda wakes rested, energized, and thrumming with the afterglow of euphoria. A scan with her powers reveals it was not just a pleasant dream, the presence of Vision’s slightly groggy mind flaring brightly from the main room. She dresses quickly, hands occupied with roping her hair into a tight knot while a puff of scarlet opens the door, her lips traveling upwards at the sight of Vision standing in the middle of the room, one sleeve rolled up to the elbow, shirt unbuttoned down to the glint of vibranium on his sternum, and his hands and mind concentrated on unrolling and fastening his other sleeve around his wrist. It’s not clear if he’s seen her, his fingers working out the creases in the fabric with meticulous movements, two tugs of his shirt cuff and then a smoothing out with his palm. Wanda considers removing herself to her room due to an odd, somewhat thrilling feel of intimacy watching his morning routine, but she remains, eyes following the confident, hypnotic repetition of his actions on the other side of his body, the metal rods of his arm disappearing into the well-honed disguise of a butler. Yet Wanda can’t be fooled by the impeccably tailored armor, knows the personality, the intelligence, and the caring that hides beneath the facade no matter how high he buttons the shirt or how serious the pattern of his waistcoat.  
  
“Good morning.” His salutation catches her off guard, mind furiously attempting to refocus from his shirt sleeves to his face, relieved when she finds delight not vexation in his smile.  
  
“Morning.” The question of how he slept is forgotten as she watches him run the long, flat tie through his fingers. Her father never wore ties, maybe only three times in her life and she remembers the way her mother would grow fed up with how long it took him to preen himself. Vision does not falter the way her father would, no aggravation at the floppiness of the fabric or the complicated loops needed to complete the process. Instead he works through it methodically, popping his collar, draping the tie around the nape of his neck, lining up the fabric on his chest with gentle, fine-tuned guidance, folding it over his fingers―first the left side and then the right―pinching the two sides together and then sliding the last of the fabric through the back.  “That’s impressive.”  
  
A pleased confidence flashes in his eyes, one that, if used too often, might permanently destabilize her knees, especially when paired with the assured movement of his fingers straightening out the tie, “Thank you, it is a point of pride.”  
  
“Oh?  
  
“Yes,” he turns towards her now, buttoning the last of his shirt and gingerly folding the collar down, ensemble almost complete minus his coat, gloves, and hat.  “During my recovery, the physician gave me numerous physical tasks to regain mobility, ranging from walking five steps without aid to tying a bow tie.” Wanda is drawn in by the steady gaze of his eyes. “It took me three hundred and twenty six tries to develop the necessary dexterity.” Once she’s close enough, she reaches out, experimentally placing her hands on his chest.  When he doesn’t move away, his mouth inching up a minuscule amount as he talks, she begins tracing up along the lines of his waistcoat. “Most days I am now successful on the first attempt.”  
  
Her fingers continue their journey, stopping at his neck to pinch the tie in both hands, pretending to fix it despite the fact it already lays perfectly in place. “Very impressive.”  
  
If there was any worry that the sun would chase away his affection it is defeated soundly when he bends, a coy “Thank you” tickling her lips. He pauses, silently seeking permission, and Wanda grants it, pulling him down the last half inch by his bow tie.  
  
This kiss is longer than the night before, more confident and affectionate, her fingers curling tighter into the silk and erupting with scarlet when he places a hand firmly on her lower back.  Vision shifts, and if he dares to think he can end this kiss now, especially if he insists on leaving for weeks, then he truly is an imbecile. To make her intentions irrevocably clear, Wanda’s hands vacate the tie so she can wrap her arms around his neck, guiding him closer to her. He obliges, more so than any book of butlering would recommend or etiquette likely allows, the gentle poise of his body fading the deeper she kisses him and the tighter her arms get to eliminate any last iota of space between them. This action is rewarded with an electric feeling tingling along her spine as his hands come to grip her waist, holding her firmly against him.  
  
“Miss Maximoff,” the way her name sounds in his euphonious accent and the smile glancing her mouth only increases the desire spreading from her chest to the tips of her toes, her lips begging for one more kiss, which Vision seems to heavily consider, voice quieting at her amative stare. “Regrettably I, I do nee-,” Wanda gently leads him back to her, his conviction to finish the sentence crumbling as his lips descend comfortably back to hers, fingers scrunching around her waist. If he never finishes the thought it means time will remain locked in this moment, a wholly desirable outcome.  Yet he won’t concede, pulling back just enough to pepper the rest of his sentence with apologetic tenderness, fingers still clutching her waist as if he doesn’t want to believe the words either, “I need to leave.” Vision tilts his head forward, lips moving strategically out of reach while his forehead comes to rest against hers, his voice uneven and breathy, “May I call on you, when I return?”  
  
“Of course.” A contented smile meets her words, a gentleness signaling he is about to step away, but she is unwilling to lose this just yet. “You know Vizh,” she intends to draw out his name, entice him closer, but the last syllable is smothered by the curious squint of his eyes and the alluring, pursed smile on his lips. So she commits to the shortened moniker, arms descending slightly, her palms skimming along his shoulders as she angles into her next attempt to elongate their time together. “The weather looks quite dreadful today, it might not be in your best interest to leave.”  
  
Vision twists his body, the movement turning her as well, to examine the undeniably cheerful sunshine streaming through the windows. His eyes travel along her face, his expression torn between apology and amusement, “Wanda, believe me, I desperately wish to stay.”  
  
“Will Stark send someone if you don’t come back?”  
  
The line of his mouth develops a grimness despite his eyes remaining jovial, “After an entire night away, he might come himself.”  
  
Wanda gives an exaggerated grimace at the information, finally admitting defeat with a sighed “Fine,” and releasing him to step away. She crosses her arms, attempting to still the rapid beating in her chest, while her eyes follow as he gathers the rest of his belongings.  Pinpointing exactly what she feels is difficult, the thrill of this new development in their relationship battling the crestfallen pang of the absence of his touch and the reality of not seeing him for weeks. What she does know for certain is that these last moments need to be utilized strategically to allow her to enjoy his company before it’s gone. “You said Stark is bringing three demonstrations?” It’s not the ideal topic, the mixture of Stark with any sort of desire unwelcome, yet it is the one that guarantees she can hear him talk freely, relish the soothing intonations of his explanations.

“Yes,” gingerly he tears the pages from his notebook containing the tarot translations. “Mr. Stark is showcasing his luxury steamboat, the Virginia,” the notebook slides into the inside pocket of his coat along with the pen, “which we are actually taking down to the Exhibition.” 

Wanda watches him pick up his coat and smooth out the stubborn creases created from hanging all night. “Not the railway?”

“Mr. Stark has sworn off such travel after his bid to fund the New York Central Railroad mergera was denied.”

There was some talk about the merger, she thinks, but none of it really mattered to her, until now, when suddenly she feels the need to become a more faithful patron of the railroad. “So he built a boat instead?” 

A conspiratorial grin flirts with Vision’s mouth, an expression she’s never seen on his face, yet it may already be one of her favorites, particularly given it is in response to Stark’s utter ridiculousness. “Mr. Stark is very gifted at channeling his rejections into innovations.”

“Just sounds like a sore loser to me.” If they were around Stark now, or anyone for that matter, she knows Vision’s face would be inexpressive, neutral to a fault, luckily she is able to see his lips give in to temptation and quirk up at the jab. “What else is he bringing?”

Vision slides his arms into the coat as he answers, “The opening demonstration of the Exhibition will be of a full-bodied mechanization deemed the Iron Man,” distaste scrunches Vision’s nose, a lighthearted annoyance imbuing his words as he explains further,  “I have attempted to point out that Steel Man is more accurate to the actual composition of the suit, but Mr. Stark says it is not as flashy.”

The politics of naming, though amusing, it not something she feels like she should enter at the moment. “And the last one?”

Vision buttons the jacket, eyes downturned to focus on his slightly shaky fingers. “Mr. Stark is holding a private demonstration of the Arc Infusion Pump.”

An easy shrug of his shoulders shifts his coat to its proper place though Wanda barely notices, her mind latching on to the last point, the pulse of her powers growing in her palms at his words. “You’re taking the arc reactor into the public?”

“Well not the public, a private demonstration for only the most prominent names in medicine.” Technicalities do not change the fundamental issue nor the vertiginous descent of her heart. “Wanda, are you feeling okay?” 

Concern is etched on his face and she attempts to keep her voice level and curious, throwing in a touch of revulsion when she reaches Stark’s name, “Is Stark making you do the demonstration?”

Vision’s wariness remains, brow wrinkling at the change in the atmosphere, “No, Mr. Stark asked for one of the physicians to bring a patient.” This does little to quell the pebble of worry growing in her mind. “It is quite exciting,” a tentative hand runs along her arm, guiding her to look up at him and the inquisitive enthusiasm brimming in his eyes, “the possibility of engaging these great thinkers to develop the technology further to help others. It is the vision of medicine Mr. Stark always talks about.”

He’s clearly excited for this and so she feels the need to echo that with a half-empty, “That sounds wonderful, Vizh.” The lack of conviction in her response pulls his features down, his mouth taut and seemingly torn on how to proceed.

“I need to leave.” The proclamation is hesitant, the syllables hovering in the air as he waits for some sign from her on what to do. Wanda smiles, a small nod releasing him to finish getting ready. For a brief moment, when his back is turned and he can’t possibly see the suggestion on her face, she considers trapping him in scarlet, absconding away with him to the furthest reaches of the country, starting a simple life with no trace of their pasts, yet such daydreams are impossible, the squeak of his leather gloves sliding over his scarred hands a reminder of how brief such a fantasy would be before reality caught them. He turns back towards her, ignorant of the wondrous albeit fleeting plan, and nods, his feet taking him reluctantly out the door.

Wanda follows him to the carriage, the unease she has at his leaving causing her thoughts to sprint and collide in her brain, rendering any intelligible sentences unutterable. The last thing she wants is for him to leave in silence, so she finally suffices with a, “Be safe, Vision.”

It seems an appropriate comment, a tender turn of his mouth accompanying his, “I will.”  Vision glances around them, confirming they are still completely alone, yet it seems even the threat of a random traveler coming over the hill restricts his movements, his mouth still trapped in the half-moon smile, but instead of stepping closer he reaches down, sliding his fingers under hers, his blue eyes studying her intently. “I-um,” the gloves seem to have sealed away his confidence, returning him to adept politeness, yet he manages to bypass etiquette long enough to eek out a quiet, breathtakingly genuine, “will miss your company,” as he eases her hand to his mouth, a light, heartfelt press of his lips to her knuckle sending a flutter through her stomach and cementing her adoration of his man. “Farewell, Wanda.”

“Goodbye, Vision.” Wanda waves as he leaves, heart sinking in time with his descent down the hill and out of her sight.

 

 

 

Wanda assumed the sunken feeling would dissipate as the day went on, and yet her heart seems to only keep dropping. The memories of his visit war against an ever expanding anxiety, one she has tried to chase away by throwing herself into chores, even walking to the market to assess the damage done to her stall from the storm. Nothing she does, however, can stop the cacophony of emotions from ricocheting inside of her, her body practically vibrating as her scarlet tinged fingers toil at reattaching the curtains to the slanted poles of her stall.

Ideally there is no reason for her to be this anxious, Vision is fine (hopefully more than just fine), Stark is, unfortunately, fine, they are leaving to present inventions, an activity Stark is well known for, his panache legendary. She should be allowing her mind to lose itself in the memories of the soft ridges of Vision’s lips and the thrill of the pressure of his fingers curled around her, this time out of desire and not pain. Yet her mind continually cycles back to the arc reactor, an item prized by many, one even her own existence has revolved around.  The image of the wires and the stone is committed to her memory, having been beaten into her body each day while she and Pietro learned to use their powers and fulfill their duty.

Another angry knot secures the fabric to the pole before her hands move on and her mind transitions to her next futile attempt to stave off the decision she knows is on the horizon.

According to Vision’s interpretation, Stark’s plan is charitable, sharing the invention with others in order to help more people (people such as Vision), but it is also, no doubt, simultaneously a carefully constructed demonstration where he can tout his superiority over the minds that should have made the breakthrough. It is entirely possible there is nothing more than this -- a simple demonstration of bravado after which the reactor will return to the manor and famed obscurity once more. Vision, who should care very much about the safety of the machine, seems unconcerned, eager even, but he also believes she is extraordinary, that there is nothing to fear about her, and so has shown his own questionable, naive placement of trust. Wanda is well aware, however, of the roiling clouds of her past sins, ones too dark for even her to have clarity about her identity, which is why she knows, deep down, there is no possibility this is a simple, intimate meeting of minds. Just because it is private doesn’t mean Stark has kept silent on it -- his loose lips even more legendary than his showmanship.

Wanda releases a furious, exhausted huff at the path that lays before her. If she had remained unattached and indifferent, she could shrug her shoulders, continue living with the peace that she had nothing actively to do with Stark’s demise, and all the while remain free of the shackles of her prior decisions. But it’s not that simple, not anymore.  

Gingerly she ties the last of the rope before standing and inspecting the small satchel at her waist, jingling it for a sense how much is left from Mrs. Mesnier’s palm readings. The journey from her tent to the office is short, maybe a two minute walk, and yet her feet slog through the dirt, her instincts screaming to turn around, pack up her things, and keep moving until everything is forgotten. In contrast, her heart constricts at the thought of Vision being hurt by her inaction, the guilt of harming him not once but twice, and this time potentially irrevocably, too much to bear.

Wanda tamps down the stifling sense of foreboding cocooning around her as she walks through the doorway of the office. Though the town is small, the presence of the lumber mill means there is a telegraph machine, a contraption she doesn’t fully understand or trust, having only used it twice under dire circumstances. “Excuse me?” The man sitting behind the desk is lost in the newspaper, turning the black-and-white page at an achingly slow pace. A louder, firmer “Excuse me” startles him.

“What can I do for you?”

“How much to send a telegraph?”

There is likely a sign to answer this information or so the exaggerated eye roll suggests.  The newspaper snaps shut, a muttered curse going along with his choppy movements as he stands and pulls out a sheet of paper. “Quarter a word, fifty cent if it’s going past the city, umble-cum-stumbleb ma’am?”

Wanda nods, sorting through the menagerie of metal pieces in her hand, trying to figure out how to send her message in the fewest words possible so she doesn’t spend the last of her earnings. “Okay, may I?”

“I can do it,” the quill is poised over the sheet, the impatience at her interrupting his newspaper reading still very much present in his tone, “ma’am.”

Wanda clamps her hands shut, forcing an amicable smile on her face, “Very well.” Whether he realizes now or as he sends the message that it is in a different language likely won’t impact the expected anger from him, but Wanda always tries to keep her status as unnoticeable as possible. “A-R-K, space,” she checks his writing as she talks, unwilling to let her money be wasted by inattentiveness, “N-A-D-E-N, space, P-L-A-N. End.”c

The only sign he cares for the unusual words is the frown that drops in time with the rising of  his eyebrow, yet thankfully that is all. “Where to?”

She hesitates, not at the information but at what she is willingly stepping back into with this message. The tempest of indecision whips through her mind, threatening her resolve until the memory of Vision’s sincere, trusting eyes and the warm touch of his lips to her knuckles guides her into the calm eye of the storm. “Castle Garden, New York City, box 5.”

“Seventy five cents.”

The money is counted four times before he accepts it, “Do I come back for the response?”

Tired, annoyed eyes inspect her from across the counter, his face conveying how he just wants to read his paper. “Either I deliver it for a dollar fifty or you come back and ask for it.”

Wanda recoils at the charge, attempting a nonplussed smile as she steps back, “I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

The message, however, doesn’t come the next day, or the day after, or the day after that, even though each morning Wanda is waiting at the building to greet the half-awake grouch of a man. It’s not until the fourth day that the telegraph operator's mostly incomprehensible grumble is different, hopefully informing her that he has her message. This supposition is confirmed when he silently, and with stilted annoyance, waves his hand for her to follow him before he rifles through a stack of papers. “Castle Garden?”

“Yes.” Sleep has been fleeting, unlike the night Vision visited, her giddiness replaced with recollections of tortured minds and carefully explained diagrams of how to determine she had found the arc layered with a very new, vibrant image of what might happen to Vision if she’s correct.

“Here.” The folded up paper is shoved into her hands and followed by a pointed shooing movement that sends her into the orange tinged morning. Wanda pries open the paper, fingers almost as unsteady as her heart. She takes in the words, immediately crumpling it in her fist. It’s clear now there is a best solution and it’s not running away, it’s not pretending the confirmation of her worst fears aren’t true. No, it’s to shift her focus solely to protection, a new motivation for her, one long ago buried with Pietro.

 

 

 

A resounding thud vibrates from the brass door knocker as Wanda releases it for the sixth time. She knows, logically, this is five times more knocks than Vision would ever allow, yet she can’t accept the silent answer from the door. Another desperate rise and fall of the knocker is met with an exasperated and unnecessarily loud sigh from the rickety wagon behind her. Wanda glares at the steadfastly imposing door before spinning around, a stern finger raised asking for just a mite more patience from the man clutching the reins. If it hadn’t taken an infuriating hour after packing up a small bundle of her belongings to procure a ride (a careful dance of bartering several palm readings, almost the last of her money, and a foolhardy promise of meeting the famous Tony Stark) and then another hour before the farmer deemed it acceptable to leave, she’d be more understanding of his waning cooperation.  Instead she keeps her eyes forward, refusing to make eye contact with him, and stomps along the cobblestone drive, following the curve of the railed porch until it transitions into brick and then end.  She cranes around the edge of the house to take in the serenity of the lawn, the planks of the stable glowing under the morning sun, the chicken coop in the distance a paragon of domesticity, all against the backdrop of the pond, complete with the stunning, snowy plumage of a swan floating happily in the water.

The picturesque scene is discomfiting, but the swan is the ultimate omen.  Vision is gone, already on the trajectory to a reckoning neither he nor Stark are privy to.

She returns to the wagon, hoisting herself up onto the seat, features striving to remain calm in the face of his annoyed, “You done?”

“Can you take me to Green Island?”

“Green,” the impregnated pause accentuates the slow drop of the leather reins onto his lap, “Island?”

The easiest argument is that technically it is on the way back to Normanskill, but given that would emphasize the needlessness of coming all the way to the manor, Wanda grasps at some other incentive.  “I need to speak with a friend there, he’s a blacksmith, can shoe your horse.”

His unimpressed, “Just shoed her the other day,” pairs well with the oozing disappointment of not only failing to meet the notorious Stark but also having his day wasted. 

Wanda switches her tactic to emotional manipulation, trying her hardest to allow the thrumming of her anxiety into her voice, “I really need to get there soon, please it’s an emergency.”

“And I’d like my wheat to grow faster.”

With nothing left to barter, there is only one more method.  Wanda hides her hand in the folds of her skirt, masking the scarlet glow as she dips into the shallowest depths of his mind, seeking anything that might convince him. There isn’t much to harvest, his thoughts rotating around fears of blight, the concerning limp in his horse’s trot, and the hopeless ire at the fact his son hates agriculture, but then a brief, flickering memory streams past and she latches onto it. “You hunt, correct?” She tries to make it sound inquisitive, as if she had been paying attention to all the things he told her on the way up, instead of admitting she gleaned it from his memories.

The man is slow to respond, fingers squeezing tight around the reins. “I do.”

It is tactically unwise to offer a prize dependent upon another person, but there is nothing left in her arsenal. “You take me to Green Island, I can get you Barton arrows.”

The man’s grip on the reins loosen as his body hinges at the waist, head turning slowly to scrutinize her face. “How am I,” the leather dangling from his hand slaps his chest as he gestures through the question, “going to afford masterpieces like that with what you paid me?”

Clint’s likely disbelief at her next comment is only okay because it is outweighed by the ticking clock of hopelessness. “I’m like,” she hesitates at the exaggeration, “a little sister to him, I can talk the price down.”

The man’s grin stretches across the entirety of his face as he urges the aging horse into a trot. Unlike the journey to the manor, this one is filled with jubilant words informing her of all the things he and his son will hunt  in the coming season.  She doesn’t pay attention, however, skirting her usual rule of at least attempting shallow conversation, mind torn between Vision and Clint. On one side is a brewing portent of doom and on the other a nervousness of how he’ll take the news because the issue with offering exquisite prizes in a bargain is that you do actually have to follow through sometimes.

It’s not long before she has an answer to one side of her quandary. “Yeah, sorry, what did you just say?”

“I offered him your arrows,” Wanda plasters an apologetic smirk on her face, “at a discounted price.”

The smithy is hellish, the thick, wooden walls trapping the fire raging in the furnace, merely walking in on a summer day elicits droplets of sweat. Yet she has never minded, the days she’s spent with Clint in this building count amongst the better ones of her life, the ordered chaos of the fire, the smelting, and the lancing calming to her mind. Except right now, his gloved hands gripping the handle of a straight-peen sledgehammer and his face unimpressed and unbothered by the sweat dripping into his eyes. Clint blinks slowly as he stares at her, “And why would you do something like that?”

“I’m trying to find Stark.”

The incredulous, silent stare coupled with raised eyebrows means Clint listened intently the few times she bemoaned Stark and Stark Industries, how she disliked the man and what he stood for, how she may have wished harm to him. “Why?”

Wanda considers how to proceed, a need to balance the truth with oversharing, “I received a message that someone was going to hurt Stark.”

“Like...a spirit message?”

“No, I-” she reaches into her satchel, pulling out the wrinkled ball of paper, “a telegraph.”

Clint beckons her to hand it over, brow matching the creases of the paper as he attempts to read the message. “It’s just gibberish.”

“It tells me to go to New York to learn more about the plan.”

This has clarified nothing according to the flail of his hands, “What plan, Wanda?”

She doesn’t have to lie this time, her own ignorance and powerlessness an ever-increasing weight on her lungs, “I don’t know, but it’s not good.” Scarlet almost bursts from her hands to get the message back, but she squelches it by balling up her fists and shoving them down towards her hips. “Someone is planning to hurt Stark and I need to warn him.”

“Nat’s with him, he’ll be fine.” Clint’s shrug seems final, his stance shifting into victory at winning the argument, possibly even saving his arrows from the deal.  “Surprised you even care what happens to Stark.”

Wanda can’t accept this blasé dismissal but also knows she can’t be convincing when talking about Stark nor can she convey the difference of this threat to the other malignant intentions people have towards Stark, so she amends her concern, “It’s Vision I’m worried about, not Stark.”

A casual _hmm_ harmonizes the cling of the sledgehammer as Clint lays it down, turning back towards her with a paternalistic smirk, “Well, Stark passed by earlier with his band of merry socialites, might still have time before they leave.”

Boarding a steamboat doesn’t take long, but the hope she clings to is the likelihood that Stark insists on having an elaborate christening ceremony. “Thank you.”  

“Hold on there,” she stops partway through the door, peering over her shoulder at his crossed arms, “you don’t get to just give my arrows away and run.” Clint’s eyes remain on her as he removes the leather apron, laying it reverently on a table, “Plus I doubt Mr. Arrow pacing out there wants to take you to the docks.” Wanda considers heading out the door, but stays, powers oscillating uneasily while she watches Clint wrap some arrows in a cloth and then grab his own quiver from the wall, slinging it over his shoulder like an old friend’s arm. “Just let me say bye to Laura and the kids.”

Patience, though a virtue, is in limited supply as Wanda stands in the grass outside the shop, overhearing Clint lecture the farmer on the proper storage and use of the arrows, on how, if he misuses them and chips any of the metal tips, he has to stop using them instantly. She can’t hear Clint’s goodbyes to his family over the thud of the wagon heading back to Normanskill, and won’t attempt to rush him even though each minute that she waits here stretches into the eternal possibility of missing Vision.

Eventually Clint returns, leading a horse behind him, the movement of helping Wanda up into the saddle and then loping up himself natural, something they’ve done numerous times. She is thankful he doesn’t try to talk to her, question her further as to why they need to make it to the dock, he simply urges the horse on along the newly placed plank roadsd, the rush of their journey accented by the rhythmic click of horseshoes on wood. The thudding gives way to the whisper of waves, ones stirred by the windy day and the movement of ships in and out of the dock. The white flutter of seagulls and their incessant, imploring caws is a shrill experience compared to the mourning doves and robins along the road, but none of it matters once her eyes alight on the coal colored chimneys coming from out of the top of a massive, incredibly impressive white-railed steamboat. The arched railings are decorated with swooping red and gold fabric, twisting with the curves of the boat, outlining each beautifully designed angle. Even the paddle at the back is a brilliant red flecked with lines of gold, something Wanda has never seen on any of the steamboats she’s been on. None of this can hold her attention, however, once she spies, amongst the flurry of activity on the docks, the lanky, well-dressed form of Vision, his arms waving stiffly at the dockhands hauling crates into the lower chambers of the boat. The pressure in her chest loosens with each second he remains in her line of sight, hope very briefly replacing the terror that’s been smothering her since he left her house.

“Wanda,”  a hand on her arm snaps her back to the horse. Clint already standing on the ground offering to help her down, “You keep staring, we’re going to miss the boat.” She swats away his hand, sliding as gracefully as she can from the horse and ignoring the knowing wink Clint sends her way.  

The bustle of the dock envelopes them, the people milling about create a mismatched scene, women in voluminous dresses, parasols in their hands and finely dressed men on their arms, walking in amongst the sweat stained yelling of the dock hands. Steamboats are lined up next to barges which themselves are next to naval vessels and peppered throughout are smaller fishing boats, a juxtaposition that only makes Stark’s luxury boat stand out even more. There are so many accents and voices, joyful conversations of adventure, tears of saying goodbye, some fighting words as well, that Wanda is immersed in the flow of the thoughts around her, not actively reaching with her powers, but large groups of people are hard to block out. She allows Clint to lead them through the people, winding in and out to avoid stagnant groups.

“‘Ello good sir,” the atrociousness of Clint’s mock English accent dispels the inundation of the rest of the minds, her attention now fully focused on Vision standing in from of them, shoulders tightening just a touch at the unexpected voice, “You have more room on this fancy boat?”

Vision turns around with a deliberate slowness, mouth already forming a rejection, until he sees them, stops, mouth falling into a frighteningly neutral line while his eyes bounce between Clint’s foolish grin and Wanda’s attempt at a friendly, non-anxious smile. “Mr. Barton,” he politely nods his head at Clint, leaning slightly to the right to examine the arrow shafts sticking up over the blacksmith’s shoulder, the only indiciation this might be alarming is the tiny rise of his eyebrows and the fog she feels forming at the surface of his mind. “Miss-” Vision’s confusion blossoms into a full storm when he faces her, features dreadfully empty of emotion despite the roiling in his mind, “Maximoff. I did not,” he glances down, breaking his usual unperturbed air, yet when he finally looks at them again, he has reaffixed his public mask, eyes set into a serious, business-like gaze. “I was not made aware you would be joining us for the trip.”

An arm snakes around Wanda’s shoulders, pulling her amiably against Clint as he leaves no room for her to warn Vision about the message, “Yeah, you know, Wanda here was telling me all about it and this boat,” the awe at the impressive vessel fills his voice, his free hand pointing excitedly at it, “how could I turn down a trip in a thing of beauty like that?”

The logic is wanting and yet Vision seems to accept it, not without reserve, a crack in his mind allows Wanda to peek into the dissidence he holds back. “Well, fortuitously, Mr. Stark did not invite enough people to fill the vessel to capacity. I can show you onto the boat, if you wish.”

“That’d be great.”

A thud and colorful cursing erupts behind them followed by deep, slightly slurred voice, “Whaddaya want us to do with this, lime-juicere?”  

A frown descends on Vision’s face and almost as rapidly is gone, replaced by a politely apologetic, “Please excuse me for just a moment.” Vision swivels around, body poised and at full height. “Sir, I have respectively informed you numerous times not only where in the cargo hold each crate must go but also that you should be conscientious in handling them given the extreme fragility of the contents.”

The dockhand nods to the burly man next to him, hands braced on the edge of the wooden crate, “You understand a word the flapadoodlef said?”

Wanda is tempted to counter the insult, do what Vision is admirably not willing to do, and let loose her fury at the way the men are acting. The sprout of temptation isn’t allowed to bear fruit when another well-dressed, though not nearly as impeccably as Vision, man steps in. “Hey V,” the man, who Wanda recalls seeing once at Stark’s manor, is shorter and rounder than Vision, his suit jacket a bit too large and pants a bit too long, and he’s far too expressive for a butler, a friendly pat to Vision’s back accompanying a cheerfully helpful, “let me handle it.”

“Happy…” the serious tone of Vision’s voice is unsuccessful at eschewing the offer.

“No, I insist, been trying real hard to show Tony why he should promote me into asset management.” Happy moves to shove Vision away, but Vision is a step ahead, avoiding any more physical contact with a casual move to the right. “Plus looks like you need to get them,” both men turn to look at Wanda and Clint, garnering a friendly wave from Clint that is reciprocated by Happy, “on the boat. I got this.”

Vision hesitates before reaching his decision, hands journeying to unite behind his back which allows him to give a slight bow. “Very well, please be diligent in your supervision, nothing can be left behind.” Happy attempts another friendly pat, but Vision veers out of reach, rejoining her and Clint in five easy steps. “Please, come with me.”  

The closer they get to the steamboat, the more impressive it becomes, dwarfing everything around it in grandeur, not just in size but the sheer opulence of the shiny paint, the metal detailing, the golden rims of the windows, the spindles of the railings carved into mythological figures that appear to struggle holding the weight of such majesty on their shoulders. Even the smoke sputtering from the smokestacks is like a pair of waltzing lovers careening through the sky instead of the angry dragons of the factories. “Miss Maximoff.” Vision’s voice is timid, as is the hand he has lightly placed on her wrist to stop her momentum.

Wanda cranes her eyes down from the boat to his face, smiling once she meets his cerulean gaze. “Yes, Vision?”

“May I escort you onto the boat?”

“You only asking me as a butler?” 

The intended reaction is one of his shy smiles, perhaps even a blush, some indication his mind has remained on their blissful morning together not long ago. Vision instead glances to the left, dragging her own eyes first to watch Clint amble up the wooden gangway, then to take in the other people congregating within earshot. He shuffles his feet, eyes not quite meeting her own until he begins talking again. “Miss Maximoff, may I please escort you onto the boat?”

She knew he would never cave and fully bypass his manners or position, but the coldness of his actions is well past anything she would have surmised for his behavior now that they aren’t merely acquaintances. “No, I can walk up it myself.”

“I insist.”

“Do you?”

His hand wraps gently around her wrist, the movement hidden by the folds her skirt, but it is small and intimate, an impropriety for a butler towards a guest, which stirs her heart into a frantic rhythm. She stares up into his regret-filled, anxious face, “Wanda,” his voice is almost a whisper as he makes the world shrink in around them, enticing her to step closer to hear him, “you are about to enter a ship that is governed by a fine-tuned, delicate web of formalities. A lack of acumen in etiquette can swiftly lead to ostracism.”

Everyone is aware the upper echelons of society function differently, Wanda herself has seen it in the fancy manors where she performed her séances. There she was immune to it, an assumption she would act counter to their etiquette, often serving as a cheap parlor trick for their enjoyment. An ill word was to be met with a smile or by simply ignoring it, lewd jokes and offensive slurs ingrained in her line of work. Wanda always found ways to respond, usually by choosing to expose the dark secrets of only certain people to the group. Not everyone can read minds though, she even remembers a time watching a young woman, no older than herself, dressed in a ruffled, obnoxiously bright pink dress, use the wrong spoon to stir her tea. The response was measured, a polite correction, and then a silent abandonment of her, leaving the woman on the outside of every conversation for the entirety of the evening. Wanda hadn’t thought far enough to consider the environment she’d be entering, mind honed in only on finding Vision. Yet now that they are a walkway from an alien world, she understands and reciprocates his nervousness. No séances or parlor tricks can hide her on this boat. “Can I just stay with you?”

Vision squeezes her wrist, a forlorn shake of his head dashing her hopes. “I am part of the staff, it would be indecorous for a young woman to adhere herself to someone of a lower rank in front of the other guests.” His eyes betray the utter audacity of the rules, admitting he is aware they have become something more and yet it would be a burden to her perception to acknowledge it on the steamboat. “May I?” He steps away, offering his arm once more and Wanda takes it.

“Thank you.” Her fingers grip the fabric of his sleeve, tethering herself to the safety of his presence for the time being. “Any other conduct rules I should be aware of?”

“I do have some recommendations.”

“Please.”

As they walk up the wooden stairs Vision quietly informs her of survival tactics based on his observations at similar gatherings: don’t speak to the staff unless it is for food or drink, do not stand away from the crowd for extended periods of time, do not speak to eligible young men without a chaperone, do not sit with any groups of women unless expressly invited, do not ever sit with a group of men, do not drink more than three glasses lest one wants to be the rumored lush on board, do not sit at the table first, do not turn down invitations to go for a walk on the deck with other women, and do not venture into the back of the ship as that is for the servants only.

“Vizh,” he’s walked her to a settee near a gathering of women, their dresses full of billowy, expensive lace with gossamer trims to match their delicate gloves, a far cry from the dirt encrusted rough cotton of her own clothing, “is there anything I can do without offending anyone?”

A contemplative silence answers her more clearly than any words. If the walking dictionary of etiquette cannot readily provide her a foolproof answer, there is no hope. “Officer Rhodes always says he finds it useful to locate at least one person who will readily speak with you without assuming airs of superiority,” he gently helps lower her onto the couch, fingers gripping her hand a half second longer than he should in this environment. “Perhaps locating Mr. Barton or Miss Romanov would be ideal.” A glance around confirms no one has taken notice to their closeness or extended conversation yet. “If by supper you are in need of reprieve, I will be on break. You may,” he points knowingly at his temple, “find me, if you wish.”

The confluence of revelations, emotions, and bribery that brought her to this ship centered around one thing - to warn Vision. Oddly, and annoyingly, her tongue shrivels into parchment when she takes in the earnest remorse settling on his face at the notion of abandoning her. Wanda should shirk off the constraints of civility and ask him to meet with her now, perhaps even leave the ship, but it is also tempting to use the hours long voyage to more finely configure her explanation of her presence (the question of her being here still at the pulsing center of Vision’s mind) so that she is prepared to answer all the questions he likely has. “I’ll find you at supper.”

“Very well.” His bow is reticent, face stuck halfway between the butler and her lover, and his body uncertain on if he turns away or continues to face her. A decision is reached when he angles the polished tips of his shoes towards her. “You know what I find humorous, Miss Maximoff?”

Wanda is enamored at the way his lips seamlessly curve into a boyish smirk, one that instills in her mind a sense of a shrug though his shoulders do not allow such outward casualness. “What?”

“I successfully relocated you away from this very river, and yet,” his smile rises a millimeter, just enough to pucker the skin around his eyes, “here you are again.”

“Here I am.”

“Extraordinary.” Another bow fully removes the smile, replaced by a Robert Roberts approved scowl of indifference. “I must go, I will check on you throughout the evening.”

Vision’s departure punctures the tenuous security wrapped around her shoulders, her eyes finally alighting on the surroundings. Stark’s manor is extravagant, if not a bit understated. Whatever restraint was used on the manor, however, has been lost here, the boat luxurious and palatial, the inside room contrary to that of other boats where the idea is to cram as many people as possible. Wanda has been on two floored steamboats lined with rickety wooden benches, yet she has never seen one where all the upper floor was removed to carve out a single vaulted room.  If not for the gold threaded tapestries and painstakingly carved columns, the glistening candelabras on the walls, or the embossed ceilings, she would think she was outside due to the spaciousness. Wanda feels small, insignificant, a vast change from minutes before where the entirety of existence lived in a single face. She stands up, noting the lack of noise from her boots, the floor carpeted in a glorious floral pattern, one that matches the plush couches and chairs (not a single bench in sight) arranged in clusters around the room.

“Can you believe this?” Clint’s voice assaults her, his unbridled joy only calling more attention to how very much she does not belong here. “Just butter upon bacon! There’s even an archery range up top. I gotta find Nat first though.”

“Why?”

He shrugs, too swallowed up by the opulence to notice the harshness of her question. “She’s always my go to with life or death things, figured she can probably help.” Which logically makes sense, having a trained spy would greatly aid their cause, but Wanda can’t muster the enthusiasm for it, not after their encounter at the séance . “Want to come?”

Natasha is not the most pressing issue and so Wanda declines, “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Okay. I’ll find you later.” Clint marches off, quiver bobbing happily along with his exuberant steps, and Wanda is jealous of how at ease he seems. He isn’t in a suit, might not even own a proper waistcoat or loafers, yet no one stares at him as if he is an outsider, his confidence too high and his qualms with fitting in non-existent. In contrast, Wanda knows she is being watched, judged, and sentenced without any words directed at her. She can feel the flow of thoughts as eyes roam over her, take in the poorly mended practical clothing, the tight knot of her hair because she still has not figured out how to tame the curls in the humidity of this area. Wanda watches a woman enter the room, can’t tear herself away from the way the voluminous white skirt bounces with each step while the diamond shaped burgundy corset at the woman’s waist ensures the bloused top remains still, the ease of her graceful entrance conjuring a tangible and aggravating self-consciousness Wanda feels whenever she is faced with high-class women.  The distinction between classes exists everywhere, but it was only upon entering a culture in which Wanda had no prior knowledge and no ability to communicate, that she truly felt the brunt of social norms. Women with the same pedigree as, say,  Miss Potts, had been particularly cruel and impatient with Wanda, her first palm reading a disastrous affair when she could not remember the word _desire_ and the woman, while angrily yanking her lace gloves back on, demanded her money back, muttering how Wanda was “Worse than the insufferable Paddies g” Now she finds herself surrounded, with no palms to hide behind or minds to manipulate into spirits, uncertain how to proceed even with Vision’s rules running through her head.

Wanda determines movement might help, at the very least remove her from the prying eyes of the gaggle of women her own age who keep tittering in her direction, so she begins walking, hovering close enough to the wall to study the intricate and beautifully woven tapestries, but far enough away that she is not secluding herself. A frenzy grows towards the far end of the room, voices muddled but she can recognize Stark’s onerous ego anywhere. Wanda keeps moving, creating more distance between herself and Stark’s gathering, fairly sure he will not be pleased to see her on the ship.  

Once she reaches the far end of the room, Wanda stops to study the threads intertwining to form the image of an angel, wings spread out in a righteous fury. “If it’s at all encouraging, I hate these things too.”

The voice is familiar, not enough for her to place it until she faces him, recognizing his dark skin and the navy uniform instantly, “Officer Rhodes.”  Wanda thinks she’s supposed to curtsy, based on watching all of the other people in the room, so she briefly drops her hips and face. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Rhodes is fine,” his smile is easy despite his hands apprehensively wrapped around a cup. “I, it’s nice to see I’m not the only outsider here.”

“But you are one of Stark’s closest friends.”

Even as she says it, she regrets it, knowing full well the meaning of his comment, but it’s too late. Thankfully he laughs, “That only counts for so much. These people,” he waves his hand towards the room, the amber liquid sloshing  in the crystal cup as he moves, “half are born into their wealth, the other half are society maddests.h Doesn’t matter which it is, being free is never enough to make you equal to them.” The comment is dampened by him taking a drink, the admission one that seems to make him uncomfortable, perhaps because he has no way of knowing how she will respond, what type of person she is in this crowd.

Wanda treads carefully with her inquiry, not wanting to imply anything she does not mean, “Was the ship too tempting to turn down?”

The answer is obvious, based on his tone, “I mean, look at it.” Rhodes sips his drink as they stare at the long, bustling expanse of the room. “No, well, yes, the ship was part of it, but I’ve been contracting with Tony on one of his inventions. Figured I could be here for moral support and to save him when he inevitably gets stuck in it or sets himself on fire again.”

“Does he do that a lot?”

“More than is natural, unfortunately.” Wanda can feel her muscles loosening, even a smile forming on her face. “I didn’t see your name on the list.” Then everything tenses once more.

Truth is unacceptable right now, but a good lie incorporates in moments of veracity, preening away the undesirable bits and refitting it with softer facts. “Vision told me all about the last Exhibition, made me want to experience it.”  

“Knew it.”

His voice is gleeful, proud, and victorious, nothing she expected. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“I’ve been telling Stark since the séance  that his butler,” on the next word Rhodes points his hand toward the graceful movements of Vision through the crowds, a tray perched atop his gloved hand. He expertly utilizes his height to weave in and out of the people, the traying rising and falling depending on who he is encountering. “Is thoroughly and completely crushedi and about to go all filly and foalj on us.” Of all the people who have seen them interact, she realizes Rhodes is the one who has caught them in the most presumably incriminating though wholly innocent position. Yet she still is surprised at the response, joy alone present in his voice, no judgment, no questioning, just unbridled giddiness. “You ever need a gooseberry-pickerk, let me know.”

The offer is too kind, especially from a man who is practically a stranger, “I will, thank-”

“Excuse me,” an older woman draped head to toe in emerald silk interrupts their conversation, an empty wine glass clasped aggressively between her fingers, “You know you aren’t here to stand around, I’d like another drink.” Wanda stares silently at the woman, attempting to determine how to respond or what to think, willing to accept her own clothing might suggest she is a servant, but Rhodes is dressed in a naval uniform. “Despicable, the help you get these days.”

Rhodes shakes his head at Wanda, urging her to forget her anger and simply wait until the woman leaves, and then a new voice joins them, the smooth, rounded way he speaks filling her with the same awe of church bells on a quiet morning. “Officer Rhodes,” Vision bows deeply to Rhodes, exaggerating the bend of his waist and standing at an unhurried pace to elongate the act of reverence, “Given you are one of Mr. Stark’s most distinguished guests, he wished for me to inform you that his best scotch is available to you at a moment’s notice.”

“Thank you, Vision.”

The butler bows his head before turning to Wanda, “Miss Maximoff, Miss Potts has offered her personal dressing quarters to you should you need them any time today.”  Vision begins to leave, a careful pantomime as if he hadn’t noticed the other woman, and then he snaps to her attention, a slight inclination of his head (not willing to fully forego manners), “Mrs. Adams, would you like any coffee?”

A huff lingers in the air after the emerald monster has left, and Wanda finds it delightful the complete lack of remorse on Vision’s face and the way she sees the mannered facade break down in this moment, his smirk matching the grin breaking across Rhodes’ mouth, “You know she’s about to complain about your horrible manners, Vision.”

“Yes, well,” he gives an unconcerned sniff, tray rising up as his elbow bends, “it would not be a Stark event without Mrs. Adams filing a complaint.”

“Why does he even invite her?”

Vision answers Rhodes immediately, a straightforward, serious reason,  “She is the matriarch of one of the richest families in Albany.” Momentarily his attention shifts to the room, scanning all of the people, an attempt, she thinks, to determine his next destination. Before he leaves, however, he glances at her, face still serious but his voice concerned, “Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Maximoff?”

Wanda smiles, almost reaching out to pat his arm, yet she maintains a socially acceptable distance, filling her voice with comfort and briefly touching his mind, “I’m fine, thank you.”

"Good."

“I’m fine too, you know.”  Rhodes’ response doesn’t reach Vision before he is enveloped in the crowds once more.

The next couple of hours go by slowly, Wanda moving from tapestry to tapestry, hovering on the outskirts of conversations, overhearing chatter about venture girlsL, business dealings, betrayals, deaths, and courtships, all while waiting to see if she can be invited in. For several minutes she even contemplates mental manipulation, sending a nudge into the mind of one of the women to ask her to join. This, however, is not an avenue she decides she is willing to take, so she continues to hover. Several times she spies Clint, returns his wave but never approaches, the calculating gaze of Natasha at his side enough of a deterrent. Wanda has never felt so entirely out of place in her life. The experience only momentarily brightened by the brush of a gloved hand along her back when the crowd is thick and the numerous offers of beverages from the same, blue-eyed butler.

“Miss Maximoff?”  

Wanda blinks several times, eyes trailing along a painting (one of candlesticks that look decidedly similar to the ones she helped Vision clean) before tilting her face up to take in the marginally concerned squint of Miss Potts. “Yes?”

“I realized only recently that we have not formally met.” The woman’s expression shifts back to a polished neutrality, an easy, albeit empty, smile forming on her face as she reaches out a gloved hand, knuckles pointed towards the vaulted ceiling so that her fingers dangle in a delicate invitation. Wanda steps forward, eyes never leaving the woman’s hand, and has to effortfully instruct her arm to rise until she wraps her fingers around the satin fabric of the glove. “I am Virginia Potts, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Wanda musters a polite smile at the conflicting information. Etiquette, she believes, dictates that she withhold any inquiries, the higher status individual the one in charge of the interaction, and yet she cannot seem to stop her mouth. “Virginia? Like the boat?”

The sharp exhale makes it quite clear this is an unwelcome topic even if the woman still answers, dropping Wanda’s hand as she gives the most subdued and yet emotive shrug Wanda has ever seen. “Yes, though I strongly detested the idea.” It is a simple comment, one that provides information but also keeps their social distance at merely acquaintances. Even with the airs of politeness, Wanda can feel herself calming, shoulders settling into a more comfortable position and her breath coming easier at the friendliness of the woman. “Would you care to sit with me?”

“I-” the expectant arch of Pepper’s eyebrow provides the anticipated answer, one that Wanda finds herself acquiescing with despite vehement misgivings. Even if she has been striving for such an invitation, the idea of it being with Pepper is beyond what she can fathom. “I will gladly join you.”

“Delightful.” Pepper turns to inspect the room, if she is displeased by the state of the surroundings -- almost all of the couches and chairs taken, people beginning to show signs of intoxication through both increasingly louder voices and more relaxed bodies -- she doesn’t draw attention to it, instead stepping casually to a leather couch under a bay window and sitting down, powder blue skirt rustling as she crosses her ankles. Wanda mimics the actions as best she can, remaining silent, both for the sake of propriety but also because her mind is empty of conversation starters. “Have you always been a spiritualist?”

The question is unexpectedly personal for their level of familiarity, but Wanda recognizes in this woman a certain mutual unconventionality. “No,” her fingers twist together as she considers what to reveal, unconventional or not, Pepper is closely tied to Stark. “When I first arrived in the country I was employed at factory that manufactured rudders for steamboats.” A decision she regretted instantly, but the pay was slightly higher than the meat packing factory, and a better alternative than being a house servant or joining a brothel. She only remained at the factory until she attended the Fox Sisters’ seminar with heightened confidence and grand plans of revolutionizing the methodology of soothsaying. “I have been a full-time medium for a year and a half.”

Pepper folds her hands in her lap, attention remaining steadfastly on Wanda. “How were the conditions of the factory?”

The inquiry is innocuous and yet women such as Miss Potts rarely share words that are not intended to gather certain information, so Wanda proceeds, maintaining an equally inconsequential tone as her companion. “Surprisingly generous.”  Unlike the factory in Sokovia, there were posted guidelines, a set number of timed breaks, instructions on how to handle disputes and injuries, and a rigid rule on the number of hours worked per week.

“Good.” There is unmitigated pleasure in her voice as she shifts her torso and grins at Wanda. “The Potts Steam Company prides itself on protecting and respecting our workers.”

“I-” truthfully she was never able to read the name on the side of the brick building, perhaps she heard it at some point, but what truly mattered at the time was keeping afloat amidst the turmoil that was her life. “Your family are steam,” there is a word she recalls hearing lobbied about by the big names of the city, “tycoons?”

Pepper’s laugh starts at a polite and pleasant high note before floating down to a whisper. “Yes, though the company has been solely under my tutelage for five years now.” It’s said so casually that Wanda has to replay the statement in her mind to fully grasp the meaning. Even in spiritualism there is an understanding that it is a flippant living, the only sect of the movement receiving any clout is the male-dominated mesmerists. A gentle touch of gloved fingers to her hand brings Wanda back to the conversation, Pepper smirking at her shock. “You should see their faces when I sit at the head of the table.” The knowing wink that goes along with the statement procures a small smile on Wanda’s face.

“I’m certain it is a shock.”

“Truly.” Her voice grows biting and unapologetic, “An affront to the sensibilities of good business, and yet somehow the company thrives.” All sarcasm leaves her voice as she leans towards Wanda, gloved fingers gripping her wrist in earnestness. “I was in Seneca Fallsm, surrounded by other enterprising women such as ourselves. The world,” another squeeze and Wanda feels a genuine burst of excitement at the thrilling fierceness in the woman’s eyes, “is about to change for us.”

“Pepper, I need you.”

An unmerciful eye roll dances with Pepper’s fine tuned sigh as she stands, fingers delicately arranging the bell shaped skirt so she can turn to greet Tony. “Tony we have been over this, there is nothing in this world that you need me for, want is a far preferred term.”

“This time,” his hands flail, trying to muster a believable defense, “this time it is a need.”

“I’m sure,” the patronizing way she pats Tony’s shoulder only confirms the wrongness of their pairing, Wanda even more confounded at the coupling of such an independent and fantastic woman with, well, Tony Stark. “What if I said I wanted to continue speaking with all the guests? I was enjoying my conversation with Miss Maximoff before you so rudely interrupted.”

Stark inhales while craning his neck to face the couch where Wanda remains. There is a war on his face, his temper flaring in the defined frown pulling his mouth down but a defeated matteness of his eyes conveys that he is cornered by the situation. If he raises a fuss now, it will cause alarm and impact the joviality of the ship. If he doesn’t acknowledge her, then he is granting her permission to be aboard through omission.  Wanda half expects him to call her out, reveal her own motives and explain how her scheming led to the dire situation of his butler and his manor. But instead he heaves his breath back in and returns his attention to Pepper, “Come on, Pep.”

“You may attempt to goad me with pathetic and sad eyes, but you’re going to fail.”

Tony frowns at her, hands reaching out to rest on Pepper’s arms, “But I need you to help me announce supper.”

The answer to his request is both surprising and said with such conviction Wanda can’t find it in herself to stop from grinning, “I’m certain you can manage that yourself.”

Tony bows his head, resting his forehead on Pepper’s shoulder in a display that violates at least four rules of courtship that Wanda is aware of, and yet there is no movement from the woman to abate the action even amongst a crowd of so many eager onlookers. “Pep, please.” In another affront to civility, his hands come to rest on her face, thumb rubbing her cheek as he speaks, “you know no one will listen to me and then we won’t eat for at least another hour and all that will be said about the _Virginia_ is that we don’t properly dine our guests.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“That a yes?”

Pepper inches her lover away from her with two hands, resetting to a proper distance before she turns towards Wanda, “My apologies, Miss Maximoff,” she offers her hand, fingers delicately hanging in the air, and Wanda takes it, “we can speak more at a later time.”

Unlike before, Wanda’s presence is not ignored, the seats around her populating once Pepper walks away, discerning eyes framed by cascading curls and expertly woven ribbon silently taking her in. It is a sign she has at least been accepted as possibly being worthy of conversation, even more telling is how, even though their bodies angle away from her, their voices are raised just enough that she can hear them gossip about which of the eligible gentlemen on the ship is behaving poorly. Frankly, it’s all too frivolous for her right now.

The people in the room begin to dissipate, the waitstaff directing the guests towards the dining room. This is the sign she has been anticipating since arriving on the ship, an overdue break from rules and manners and side-eyed judgmental gazes. While joining the crowd, Wanda sends out a tendril of scarlet, seeking Vision’s mind, lips curving up once she locates him slipping away towards the stern. She follows Vision’s path, changing direction to move against the crowd, her body parting the excited sea of supper-time guests.

Once outside the main room she is met with the sloshing of the river, waves crashing and receding with the movement of the boat and the churning of the paddle. It’s blissfully devoid of crowds, an escape she wished she had known about earlier. “You’re going the wrong way.”

All evening she has felt the fire of a stern and unrelenting gaze, and now that she finds herself faced with Natasha Romanov, draped in folds of ebony taffeta held in place by a crimson belt, Wanda realizes she did not put forward enough effort to strategize how to handle this threat.  “I’m not hungry.”

Natasha folds her hands demurely at her waist, a location Wanda recalls houses at least one knife, and flashes a knowing smile producing an overall effect of a predator biding her time. “I know who you are, Scarlet Witch.” Wanda wants to counter back, insist the moniker is no more, deny the lives she ruined, but she recognizes the unshakeable conviction in the woman’s eyes. “Clint told me why you’re here.”

The woman’s voice is eerily calm, devoid of any sign of what she is thinking other than that she views Wanda’s intentions incorrectly. “I’m not here to hurt Stark.”

“Yes, apparently you are trying to help him.” Delving into Natasha’s mind could eliminate her as an obstacle, allow Wanda to escape, for now, but doing so would come at the cost of losing any lingering respect or trust. If she is going to help Vision (and Stark), there is no way of being successful without Natasha. Yet the woman does not make it easy, expertly prodding the still healing sores of her past. “Just like you were no doubt doing in the ammunition factory in Zagreb.”

There are numerous regrets Wanda has working for the Baron, not least of them is her own hand in inciting political hysteria by implanting rebellion into the people’s minds. She truly felt it was right, at the time, considering all that had been stolen from the lower classes, all they would never be allowed, until she saw their bodies piling higher and higher. “I’ve tried so hard to leave it all behind.”

If Natasha is moved at all by the tremble in her voice or the tears gathering in her eyes, there is no sign on her stoic face. “Do you know anything about the plan?”

Wanda almost gives an outright no, except it would be a lie, not by much but enough to likely tempt the knife resting beneath Natasha’s hands. “Only that it involves the arc reactor. Nothing more yet.”

A relieved breath flows from Wanda’s lungs as Natasha pulls her hands away from her waist, an uppish sniff denoting the displeasure at the lack of information. “Don’t tell Vision anything.”

“Why not?”

Natasha cocks her head to the side, seeming to view Wanda’s question as too idiotic for comprehension, “Because if you tell Vision he will mention it to Tony, and once Tony knows, well, no one is as gifted at ruining my strategies than a man who thinks himself smarter and more cunning than everyone else.” She shrugs, her statuesque mask cracking slightly to show Wanda the annoyance of remembrance on her face. “He isn’t as skilled as he thinks and tends to cause more issues by being involved.”

“Fine.” Wanda waits to see if there is more, is suspicious when there is nothing else, but takes it as a release from the confrontation. Effortlessly she latches back onto Vision’s mental signature and turns away.

“Wanda,” she stops, glancing over her shoulder at the woman, her red hair catching the sunlight so perfectly an artist could easily use her as a model for the angel of death, “you leave this boat, I will follow you. You leave Stark Tower, I will follow you. You try anything and we can finally answer the question of what would have happened had we met while you were still my mark.”

Wanda leaves without remark, hands gripping her skirt and lifting it so she can hustle away. The longer she is on this boat, the less certain she becomes of her choices, fearing that the only path left is a complete descent into her prior life. Perhaps it is her fate, no matter how far or how hard she runs, her past pursues her. This train of thought is blown away by the breeze rushing over the stairs leading her to one of the upper decks. All hesitation and doubt in her choices are fully eradicated at the sight of Vision standing at the rail, staring out over the river. Wanda approaches him, her hand trailing along his back, pleased at the twitch of surprise in his muscles followed by the smile he turns towards her. “Wanda.”

“Hi, Vision.”

There are people visible below them, no guests, based on the clothing, but an array of workers, some in suits like Vision’s, others in aprons and rolled up sleeves, the women are all in ankle length dresses with their hair tied back.  Each position wears a set uniform that makes it impossible to misidentify their status. Vision, understandably, does not lean into her or move to show affection, rightfully wary of how quickly rumors of their closeness would spread. Wanda finds it exhilarating, however, that he is even standing at the rail with her to be seen. “I secured you one of the main courses since you are missing it.” He directs her to a small table set up out of sight of the people downstairs, two plates with metal cloches resting atop a cream colored linen. “My apologies that it is lacking,” the sincerity of his voice is more confusing than the comment, a private dinner on top of a luxury steamboat is far more than she expected or has ever experienced.

“It’s fine, Vizh.” He helps her sit, removing the cloches before sliding into the seat next to hers, much like she did the last time they were together, his legs bumping lightly against her own. “Wait,” Wanda stares at the two plates, hers a piece of art and Vision’s indistinguishable from what she’s seen pigs eat in the market.

“Staff eat different meals than guests, I could only reasonably procure one guest plate.” His words are weighed with finality, further confirmed when he picks up his spoon, “I truly am not bothered by it.”

There is an apprehension building in the air between them, one she assumes is due to Vision being far too polite to vocalize his concerns, both as a butler and as a man newly entered into a courtship. Perhaps it isn’t even fair to expect him to broach the topic given it is her own unannounced visit upending everything. “Do you,” Wanda places her fork down, hands resting in her lap so her fingers can scrunch the fabric of her skirt, “have any questions for me?”

“Yes,” the word is held for several seconds, his hands in disagreement over whether they remain on the table or fall in his lap to mimic her own stance. One ends up on the table, and the other he waves nervously through the air as he speaks. “I wish to preface this with the, um, caveat that I hope you do not misconstrue my befuddlement at your presence as a sign I am unhappy at your being here.” A heavy pause and no eye contact puts his inexpertness on full display. Wanda contemplates how long she lets him flounder before reassuring him she has done no such thing, but he saves himself, finishing the statement in a way that seems sincere and a bit rehearsed. “Please know that I am positively thrilled at the opportunity to spend time with you.”

“Me too.” Now he meets her eyes, the trenches of anxiety smoothing out on his brow, “You know that wasn’t a question.”

“I suppose it was not,” the youthful smirk she so desperately hoped to see earlier finally surfaces, accompanied by a gleam of challenge in his eyes, “though I would argue the question of your unexpected presence was implicit in the statement.”

It is tempting to jostle him further, point out the careful dance of his words as he attempts to not rudely question why she’s on this boat, to not mistakenly add a subtextual layer of displeasure to the conversation.  Now, regrettably, is not the time to distract him with banter. “I received a telegram, a few days after you left.” Whatever he was expecting, this is not it, his eyelids narrowing in bewilderment as he waits for something more illustrative. “It implied there is some plan to interfere with Stark’s demonstrations.”

“May I see it?” Wanda recalls hearing a street performer once recite a tale of curiosity and regret, something about opening a box and realizing how desire and good intentions can breed complications and unintended consequences. It feels as if she is opening that box as she reaches into her satchel, removing the embarrassingly wrinkled message and handing it to Vision. His gloved fingers smooth out the paper, lifting it close to his eyes in a foolhardy attempt to decipher the words. “What does it say?”

The lid of her metaphorical box clatters to the ground as she recites the translation from memory. “Come to the city to find out.”

Wanda can tell the second he connects the dangling threads of logic, holds her breath as he diligently ties the ends together, checks them for errors, and then cautiously reveals his work to her. “What did you send to receive this response?”

There are numerous options available to her: Natasha’s plan of telling Vision nothing (although she’s already broken her promise), the truth (either narrow or broad depending on how long Vision can spend with her), there is evasion of the topic via omissions and vagueness, or she could throw herself into his lap and distract him from the topic. The last one sounds the most pleasant albeit the least likely to end well for their relationship. The third can protect him from learning too much before she knows what is happening. But the second is the most ideal for building communication and fostering the foundational trust of their relationship. Wanda decides to combine strategies, “I told them I had found what they’ve been looking for.”

“Which is, what, precisely?”

Alone with him, Wanda allows her hands to glow, scarlet undulating with the moroseness of her mind as she pulls him deeper into the perilous web of her life. “The one thing he has that no one else does. The thing everyone thought wasn’t real, but now he’s bringing it to the Exhibition,” If she reveals more, and it is discovered she did so, there is no telling what Natasha will do to her, or even Vision, but, Wanda reasons, if Vision reaches the conclusion on his own then she can claim innocence to Nat and survive another day.

Vision seems to understand the subtext, his hand reflexively wrapping around his wrist, eyes a touch wild and acutely perturbed. “What is their plan?”

Finally she can be honest without hesitation.  “I have no idea.”

“Will you inform me when-“

Wanda takes his hands in her own, thumbs running beneath his sleeves to feel the metal cuffs at his wrist, her eyes ensnaring his, ensuring he will not miss the sincerity and promise in her answer, “Yes, Vision. I will tell you everything as soon as I know. You,” thankfully he doesn’t flinch when she moves her right hand to cup his cheek, “are the reason I’m here, the only person I want to protect.”

“Thank you.” The lack of hesitation in the turn of his face and the press of his lips to her palm enlivens her heart and strengthens her resolve in the rightness of following him. “I-“ he envelopes her hand with his own, face bare of any social graces or constraints, just a raw, pulsating anxiety that overwhelms her, “I am far more worried for you than myself.”

“I can handle it, Vizh.”

He refuses to let her brush it off, a shake of his head dispelling her bravado, “I am aware, and in awe, of your ingenuity and survival, but it was only a matter of time before someone would come for the arc reactor and,“ his eyes drop down as his shoulders rise into a half-hearted shrug, “I do not believe it worth your safety if the threat is too formidable.”

It’s a statement that needs to be refuted, one that dangerously teeters on the edge of self-sacrifice, but it is also one she can’t fully counter at the moment, unable to strongly disagree when she is not aware what, precisely, might be happening. "We can discuss that possibility if we need to." Wanda tucks the comment away, determining that for now she'd like to enjoy the limited time she has with him. “Behind you is the most breathtaking sunset I’ve ever seen.” The statement isn’t an exaggeration, the flocculent clouds dyed lilac with splashes of persimmon that give way to an almost blood red finish, all reflected in the waves of the Hudson lapping happily against the ship. Vision frowns at the jackknife in the conversation and turns in his chair, body sagging as he stares out at the variegated sky, the rough waters of his mind easing to match the rhythm of the river. Wanda stands from her chair, steps up behind him, and wraps her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder, rewarded with a gloved hand rising to grasp her own and the pressure of his head leaning against her. Wanda places a kiss to his temple, giddy at the feel of him melting into her embrace. Whatever is coming for them, in this moment she is certain, so long as she has his presence, nothing is insurmountable.

  
  


 

The ship docks around eleven in the evening, the only people leaving the vessel, however, are the house servants, including Vision (who left with a whispered apology and advice to follow Nat to the tower), all scurrying to prepare the homes of their employers. The rest of the staff remain on the ship, scrubbing every surface while keeping a distance from the still riotous party in the main room, the guests allowed to sober up before traversing the city streets. Wanda can hear Stark call for another round of smothering the parrotn, confirming it could be hours before anyone actually leaves. She sends a cloud of scarlet out, assessing the minds of most interest, and feels Nat and Clint in deep conversation. Now might be the only chance she gets.

Her fingers twitch as she sneaks off the ship, constantly adjusting her read on the people around her to sense any peril or pursuit. Before he left, Vision confirmed the dock they were at, one she knows well, having departed and arrived there numerous times, and so she allows her feet to carry her along the cobbled streets towards Castle Garden. If fortune is on her side there will be a concert, large crowds of enthusiastic and well dressed socialites an ideal cover, especially now that she can feel a mind following her, one that is, much like Castle Garden itself, an impenetrable stronghold.

The crescendo of cultured voices lifts her spirits, her hands waving to convince a couple to close off the hole she left while encouraging a group of rowdy gentlemen to shove each other out of her way. Nat can pursue her, but Wanda refuses to make it easy, channeling the confidence she had at the height of her time with Pietro in Sokovia, when the world bowed at the majesty and terror of what they’d become. The last bundle of people step out of her way and Wanda pauses, studying the simple canvas tent, one she used to sit in everyday, reading palms and granting fortunes until the man in the hat would show up to tell her who to infiltrate next. She’d never intended to come back.

Wanda steadies the tremble of her hands, tempering the scarlet to settle just beneath her skin, and snaps her chin up, taking on an air of indignation that hopefully seems natural. Confidently she marches into the tent, “I received your message.”

“‘Bout time, little witch,” confusion rams into her, unfamiliar, beady , untoward eyes disorienting as they inspect her from head to toe, causing her muscles to tense, the flow of her powers pooling in her fingertips. “Been waitin’ ‘re three days for ya, gettin’ mighty lonely.” The noxious swagger of this man is instilled with the brazen assumption all men of power (real or not) have, one that whispers to them that their position in life allots them total freedom and control of others.

“I’m supposed to be meeting with Ultron.”

The man laughs, leaning back in the chair she used while reading palms, placing his well shined boots on the rickety table. “Ya really think he’d just take ya back after disappearin’?”

It hadn’t crossed her mind to consider how her actions of the past half year would be viewed, how she fled, leaving only a note saying she had a lead and then she cut all contact, hid herself from the public, never registered her residence or dared go back to the city.  For weeks after getting off the first train, she didn’t sleep, convinced a man in a bowler hat with a slight limp would appear at her door if she shut her eyes. Clearly the intent of her absence was not as well obscured as she thought. “I can get him to Stark.”

“Yeah,” the aloofness makes her flinch, “So can we.” A sneer forms on his face and a salacious wink sends needles into her spine. “But damfino why, he told me to ‘ell ya that if ya can show us a better, more,” the man leans forward and she steps back, “intimate way to Stark, he’d consider lettin’ ya back in.” All she’s accomplished is confirmation of a plan, nothing more, and her disappointment and anger seep out of her fingers. “Woah, woah there my bricky lil’ chuckaboo.” Now the man’s ostentatiousness begins to fracture, his eyes frenzied as he takes in the scarlet engulfing her hands. “We planned for this, ya know, I don’t know the plan, just the message. So try it, won’t get ya anything.”

There’s no bristle of falsehood in his mind, so she abates the scarlet. “How am I supposed to prove my closeness to Stark?”

The threat gone, he sidles right back into an expert simper even Stark would be hard pressed to muster, “Oh, we got eyes on ya at all times - even know ya rode in on that afternoonifiedo boat.” The simper broadens into an annoyingly prideful beam, “We’ll be in touch once ya’ve proved it.”

Red crackles round her fingers as a final warning before she exits the tent, eyes immediately alighting on Natasha’s smug grin as she loops her arm through Wanda’s. “Hope you learned something useful.”

“I didn’t.” Wanda resigns herself to being escorted, Natasha leading her back through the crowds, her mind tired, defeated, and swelling with enmity.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victorian Language and Culture Decoder (with a new footnoting system!)  
> a: The New York Central Railroad merger was a big deal in the early 1850s as it connected all the railways going from New York City all the way to Buffalo.  
> b:Umble-cum-stumble: Understood?  
> cArk naden, plan?”: Arc found. Plan?  
> d: Plank roads were wooden roads laid in the mid-1800s that greatly helped the travel of wagons and carriages.  
> e: Lime Juicer: An early 1850s slang term for British, typically used when talking about men in the Navy. Apparently in the British navy they were known for putting lemon juice in their beer to fight diseases and promote health. By the late 1850s it became “limey”  
> f: Flapadoodle: a sexually incompetent man who is either too young to have sex or too old to attempt it anymore.  
> gPaddies: derogatory term for people from Ireland – one of the most mistreated immigrant groups during this time period.  
> h: Society maddest: people not born into society, who devote their whole lives, and often fortunes, to get into society.  
> i:Crushed: Spoony with love  
> J:Filly and foal: Young lovers that saunter away from the world.  
> k:Gooseberry-picker: A confidant who helps lovers meet in secret and/or get privacy.  
> L: Venture girls: Women, often of the middle class, sent to India to find a husband.  
> mSeneca Falls: The birthplace and meeting site of the Women's Rights Convention that turned into the suffragette movement. I like to think Pepper would be a loud voice in the suffragettes.  
> n: Smothering the parrot: drinking absinthe  
> oAfternoonified: Smart, in a fancy way
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> From here on out we are in the final story arc stretch (which still has a good 90-100 pages to come to fruition)! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and enjoy what is to come as well!


	8. In which the witch's past returns and a plan is concocted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected meeting sends Wanda's mind reeling as she attempts to come to terms with her past and figure out how to protect her future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the long wait between chapters, life has been very, very hectic. 
> 
> To Anya, happy belated birthday - as you know, this is only half of the gift, so I ask for your patience for the other half. I'll send you updates along the way :D. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

A well-dressed, enthusiastic man is speaking on an elevated stage - except no one is paying attention to him, the cheerfully sunny day too distracting. Wanda herself hasn’t looked down since paying her fifty cents and walking through the turnstiles, absentmindedly apologizing to the people bumping her shoulders, because she’s never seen anything like this before. The fact it is a sunny day is typically inconsequential while indoors but not when the entire building is crafted of glassA, the primary walls have a slight green tint and the impossibly high dome, supported with veins of wrought iron trusses and columns of milky pearl, is dressed up in lilacs, vermilions, garnets, ceruleans, and golds, giving the appearance that their lives persist in a constant state of dawn. It’s serene and borderline mystical, reminiscent of the cathedrals she and Pietro use to wander through, which means it would feel truly sacred if not for the hundreds of other people around her. 

Someone pushes past her and the spell is broken, her eyes roaming over the eclectic crowd, its innumerable fancy hats, complicated bustles, and four piece suits mingling with the coarser, less showy fabrics of factory workers, maids, carriage drivers, and seamstresses. The cost to enter should bar the lower classes, but it seems the building itself is enough to convince people to give up a week's pay just to say they’ve seen it. That’s not the only thing drawing people here right now, the opening demonstration is slated to begin any minute and everyone knows Tony Stark is not one to disappoint. Wanda tried to pry out of Vision what was going to happen today, but an infuriating, albeit expected, sense of duty kept his answers vague.   

A hush befalls the crowd as the man on the stage finishes his speech, flourishing his arms out to the side as he announces, “Without further ado, I give you….Mr. Tony Stark!”

Anticipation trembles in the minds of everyone around her and it is more deafening than the thunderous applause and whooping screams. Wanda’s eyes slam shut as she tries to block out their thoughts, an onerous, futile attempt whenever there are this many people with the same point of contemplation. “It’s astonishing, _moja mala vješti_ ceB, that you so willingly placed yourself in such a vulnerable state.”

Wanda once found this voice honeyed and encouraging, a little bit enticing, now, however, its’s glacial, wilting the awe that blossomed only moments before while she stared at the roof. Based on what she had been told upon arriving, she didn’t think he would make direct contact with her this soon. She begins to turn, heart seizing in preparation of seeing his face. “What do y-” 

“Do not react to me.” Every muscle of her body screams at her to recoil when he touches her waist, but she remains still, the impedence in his voice convincing her to keep her eyes steady on the stage where Stark is gushing at the crowd, hands clutching his heart in mock embarrassment as the people grow more excited. “Thank you.” Wanda strives to remain calm and detached, even as his hand begins a clumsy, snaking pattern along the seam of her blouse. “Are you aware there are two little birds watching you?” Clint and Natasha are perched on the edge of a fountain roughly fifteen feet back, a strategic move as it allows them mostly unfettered views of the floor to see if anyone is watching or following Wanda. As usual, this man is already two strides ahead of her own plan. “I would hate for them to come to certain...odious and licentious conclusions about our interaction.” 

When the clapping ceases, so does Ultron’s conversation, everyone attending to Stark, who is standing with a huge, somewhat maniacal grin on the stage, “I know you are all eager to see what natty narkingC I have planned but you need to wait just a little longer,” several boos come from the crowd, something Stark seems even more excited by, the smile never wavering from his face as he holds his hands out to the crowd in placation, “Keep your ‘air onD,” the annoyance from the crowd only seems to fuel Stark’s swagger, his movements expertly casual as he struts about the stage to address the entire building, “I know waiting can be hard for people such as yourselves, which is why I brought along some ladies I met in France for youF. Enjoy!” Jaunty music starts playing from the band located next to the stage, Stark exiting as a gaggle of women sashay into view, and the crowd moves forward, eager to see what amazement Stark has planned. Ultron takes advantage of the commotion, stepping closer to her, his chest skimming along her back and his hand remaining firmly on her waist. 

It takes every ounce of her power to remain unaffected and non-combative. There were rules in place when she worked for Ultron’s underground ring of, what he called, influencers - the true minds advancing society, no matter what the wealthy businessmen tried to say. No one but him could advance a conversation, any challenge or attempts at seizing the flow of attention was met with derision and ostracism. Wanda was one of the few who could get away with a moderate amount of rebellion because she knew her position as the prized favorite. She decides to gamble and hope her status hasn’t fallen too far. “You know you need me to pull off your plan.” 

“Look at this buffoonery.” On the stage is a line of women, their loose skirts stuffed with ruffled, red and gold petticoats that swish with each synchronized kick of their stocking clad legs. Wanda has seen such scandalous dancing in the music halls in areas most of the people at this Exhibition would never dare step foot in. “Every person here a sheep mesmerized by such banal delights and tomorrow,” the acerbic drip of his voice is one she used to flock to, agree with and add on to because it seemed so wise, so daring to wage a war against every aspect of society possible, “tomorrow they will be chattering of how Tony Stark has yet again changed the face of society by daringly bringing painted ladiesG onto a stage.” 

Wanda doesn’t fully disagree with the assessment, any other time with any other person, she would no doubt add to the criticisms of Stark, but for once in her life, there is no retort against the industrialist that ruined her life, her body tense and mind racing to figure out how to gain control of the conversation. “I-” 

“The only way you will have any power here, Wanda, is if you rip it from my mind.” It is a dare, the words painted with a noxious self-assuredness that she is not going to infiltrate his mind. She doesn’t counter back because he’s right, she never wants to touch his mind again. “That’s what I thought.” A pressure builds on the other side of her waist as he pushes his hand into the folds of her shirt, trapping her against him. “If you think staying at Stark’s tower and watching his sickenly extravagant demonstration will convince me you are worthy of returning to the hallowed halls of my operation, you are mistaken.” 

Furious applause breaks out around them, the music calming down to a slower, though still rollicking murmur. “What do you need then?” 

The woman next to her gasps loudly, frantically fanny her face before fainting into the man behind her, but no one seems to care, minds all merging into a wave of wonderment that crashes viciously against Wanda’s mind. Ultron leans even more into her, his mouth next to her ear to counteract the crescendo of the crowd. “I need you to prove you can get me that.” Wanda follows his voice to the stage where a bulky, enormous metal body stomps into view. If she didn’t know Stark was doing a demonstration right now, there would be no way to identify the person in the suit, the shiny gray panels covering the entire body, even the helmet only has three small holes, two for the eyes and one long, thin line for the mouth. It is one of the most terrifying, monstrous, and yet impressive things she has ever seen. Steam puffs out of valves on the back with each step that is taken, echoing creaks emanate from the joints when he lifts a metal arm to the crowd.  In the middle of the chest is a bright, golden glow, one reminiscent of the arc reactor embedded in the infusion pump. “I’ll be keeping my eye on you, _mala vještice_.” Finally, his hands disengage from her body, her lungs spasming in relief at the freedom. Wanda almost turns to watch the man walk away, needing to visually confirm it was actually Ultron, but that would mean acknowledging his presence and eradicating the tenuous relationship they’ve re-established. Thankfully, and it is a horrifying thing to realize she is grateful for Stark, the suit on the stage arrests her attention once more as it rises, wobbling a bit precariously, into the air with a ferocious scream of steam that causes the room to erupt in a joyous chaos.

 

 

 

The entire day her mind has resided in the past, Ultron’s words making unwelcome residence in her thoughts (the phantom of his touch even lingering on her body), forcing her into a whirlwind of grief and vitriol akin to the one that consumed her when she first reached this city from Sokovia. She had hoped meandering through the numerous and eclectic exhibits in the Crystal Palace would help, but can’t even recall what she saw, only able to remember the first time she felt Ultron’s mind. It was terrifying, a consciousness flaring with undiluted, almost feral rage.

While she sat at the jubilantly loquacious dinner table at Stark’s tower, where the waitstaff and obnoxiously spacious dining room were absent a certain blonde butler, she found herself delving back into the mystery of Ultron, the very one that kept her at his side for so long. It still baffles her how his mind contrasts so harshly with the cool, calmly logical way he speaks and how it always creates this sense of inhumanness, of being just askew of what a person should be.

Now that she’s alone in her room, she circles around why she joined Ultron so easily after vowing on the month-long sea voyage to forsake the life she led under the baron’s regime. It’s simple, sadly. Ultron preached the downfall of Stark, drew her in with appeals to her thirst for vengeance, the promise of making Pietro’s death and her parents’ deaths finally mean something.  With Pietro gone, this man was the only one who understood her and offered to help her. Only it wasn’t the truth. It took so long to break free of his control, to see the blight of hatred he truly was, and now she worries about being close to him again, how the progress she’s made concerning not just Stark but also her own view of herself can fall so easily back into question.

Wanda’s eyes move to the clock on the writing desk and stands, hands antsy as she fixes her blouse. All she needs, or at least she believes, to remove Ultron from her thoughts is a calm, comfortable environment, which is not to be had at Stark Tower. The experience here is far more overwhelming than she imagined, the main floor teeming with activity every hour of the day, people of importance (or so she assumes) and socialites hoping to climb higher are constantly moving in and out of the main floor parlor. If, like her stay at the manor, she could spend her days bothering the butler, it would be easier to manage, but when she had tried to whisk Vision away for a moment from the kitchen, the other servants (a 7-story tower demanding more than one butler, apparently) stared aghast at the forwardness of her entering their space. Which leaves her waiting anxiously for the heavily structured schedule to favor her. Another glance at the clock confirms her chance for reprieve is nearing. 

The tick of the second hand provides the pace for her feet to the door. She lays her face to the engraved oak, fingers splayed across the nooks and mounds of the intricate raised squares as she searches for Vision’s mind, her lips curving upwards at his approach.  Given her most recent living arrangement in Normanskill, Vision has been the one to continually surprise her, so Wanda delights in imagining what his face will look like and how many times he’ll blink as she swings the door open with a gleeful, “Hello, Vizh.” 

The game, however, seems to have evolved, not a single ounce of shock on his calmly amused face, replaced with a mischievous sheen in his eyes similar to what appeared during their afternoon of paille maille. “Good evening, Miss Maximoff.” Balanced expertly on his palm is an engraved silver tray containing a cluster of porcelain mugs sending delicate trails of steam into the air. “Mr. Stark insisted on celebratory hot toddies as a nightcap, please.”  He extends his arm, sliding the tray a comfortable distance from her. 

She accepts the offering and brings the cup close to her chest, studying his face for any sign of what comes next, whether this is the extent to which she gets to see him today or if there might be something more. “Thank you.” 

The tray remains in her reach while his eyes swivel to the side, investigating the hallway leading to the other guest rooms. Whatever he sees drops the volume of his voice slightly, “If you would like, you are welcome to take another.” 

The gloved fingers of his free hand tap lightly against his leg, a small, telling sign of the restlessness he experiences when breaking from protocol. “I don’t think I could finish both by myself.” Wanda sends him a conspiratorial smile, one he matches with a fleeting smirk. 

“I, um,” he adjusts the tray a bit to the right to counterbalance the shift of this shoulders to the left, “hope this is not too forward,” words so foreign on his tongue that Vision’s voice plummets into an impolite whisper to get the rest out, “but I was planning to perhaps call on you once I am done?” Nervousness cracks the facade of civility held so tightly in place by his bow tie, the air around him practically vibrating. “Which is why you can grab my drink now, if you wish or not if you are tired or-.”   

Wanda considers drawing it out, finding this destruction of his usually expertly controlled persona adorable, but she figures she can find another time to do so once he is actually with her. “If I took the whole tray would you come in now?” 

A glance down hides the bemusement passing over his face, his eyes meeting hers once he has regained control of his facial muscles, though the ghost of his smile lingers. “Though tempting, I do believe it would arouse unwanted attention given Mr. Barton and Miss Romanov are currently participating in a mediocre attempt at eavesdropping.” 

Wanda leans forward to peer around the doorframe, locating the two eavesdroppers four rooms down, conversing at a loud enough volume to detect a friendly ebb and flow to the dialogue, but quiet enough to make comprehending the topic of conversation difficult. It is entirely possible for the scene to actually be a casual meeting, only she is aware of Natasha’s oath to watch her every move, a promise she has upheld admirably. Vision’s assessment is confirmed when Nat’s eyes lock with Wanda’s and the spy sends a dainty, polite wave sharper than any knife. “I believe you’re right. So, I will see you in-?” 

The tray rises slightly, encouraging her to grab another cup from it as covertly as possible, “Perhaps ten minutes? I only have two more beverages to deliver.” 

Wanda steps backwards to remove herself from Natasha’s sight and then takes a second mug and saucer from the tray. “I’ll see you soon.” 

Vision bows his head, shifting back onto the heels of his well-polished shoes, and pivots towards the conversation down the hall. Once he has walked away, Wanda eases the door shut, the two cups encased in scarlet as they float along with her to the seating area nestled in an alcove near the large, arched windows overlooking the gas lamps lighting the streets below.  She places the drinks down and sits in one of the high-backed, silk upholstered chairs, determined to keep her mind and emotions calm until Vision returns. 

Deep, steady inhales lead into calming exhales, her fingers closing into fists as thoughts of Ultron seep back into her mind. This is not what she wants to think about. Wanda switches tactics, sending out a tendril of scarlet in search of Vision’s mind and then latching on to him. It is soothing to feel his mind tick through the items on his work list and construct a new schedule for the final minutes of his evening service, a sense of giddiness building as he gets closer to the last time on his schedule, one that corresponds with thoughts of her. Wanda vacillates between staying in his mind and basking in the serenity associated with his thoughts of her or extricating herself to provide him some privacy.  Once she feels his thoughts switch completely to her, Wanda removes herself from his mind and moves to the door, her powers encouraging the hinges to open. 

Scarlet sparks as Wanda grips the crown moulding of the doorway, her body teetering on the tips of her toes as she inspects the gaudy floral pattern of the carpet that is oddly absent a well-dressed butler. Clint and Natasha are still standing at the other end of the hall, now with cups in hand. Wanda pulls herself back before they see her, shutting the door and staring in confusion at the wooden panels. It is rare for her powers to incorrectly identify the location of a person, something she’ll need to assess in more detail. Just as she prepares to reconnect with Vision’s mind, an incongruously nervous yet cocky cough comes from behind her. Wanda whips around to find her wall opened and Vision standing in her room, gloved fingers tightly interlaced with an angelic grin residing on his face. “Vision!” 

His smirk falters at her shock and the flicker of red along her arms. “My apologies, I-” the confidence drips from his face the longer he stares at her and Wanda feels her confusion morphing into jocoseness at the drastic change in his demeanor, “Mr. Barton and Miss Romanov were still in the hallway therefore I thought it would more decorous to utilize another entrance.” 

“Walking through my wall unannounced is more decorous?” 

Any surety that had remained in his decision disappears as his fingers twist tighter together. “Well I suppose no, but, arguably, is it more indecorous to have it known we are shirking the decorum of traditional courtship by foregoing a chaperone?” 

For a man so stringently attuned to etiquette, it has surprised Wanda how informal he has been with the development of their relationship, even this line of reasoning seems too at odds with his usual attempts at justification. “Are you okay shirking decorum?” 

Vision’s hands release, his shoulders dropping a centimeter back into his normal stance and he sends her a boyish, somewhat guilty smile, “While I believe in the importance of honoring the rigidness of courtship protocol, I must also admit that I have unexpectedly found it a mite thrilling to sidestep the rules in order to spend time with you, alone.” 

“I never would have taken you for a rebel.” The way he shrugs the words away as if there shouldn’t be surprise in her voice is almost a challenge, one she doesn’t think he realizes he has presented, but Wanda latches onto. “You know, Vizh,” his body responds to her every move as she walks towards him, his breaths matching the slow and purposeful pace of her steps as his eyes latch on to the pronounced swing her hips. The lightness of her touch on his chest once she reaches him causes him to actually flinch though he recovers quickly, neck bending to bring him closer to her as she ropes him in with a low voice, “There are only so many ways to interpret a gentleman sneaking into a young woman’s bedroom late at night.” The intention is to fluster him, but it’s not until the words are out that Wanda realizes how, if he actually agreed with the assessment, she would wholeheartedly embrace it, something that sets her heart into a rapid staccato. 

His lips part though no sound comes out, a rapid succession of blinks punctuating the silence as he stares at her and Wanda worries, for a moment, that she may have jostled him too much. Then his cheeks get a glowH right before he begins to stammer out an explanation, “I, um, I did not intend to appear so brazen and was certainly not implying anything of the sort-” he stops talking, seemingly replaying what he just said in his mind, and offers a correction that does little to bring him back to any sort of dignified composure, “not that I would never consider such a thing with you or do not view you in such a way, Wanda. You,” Vision’s hands develop a slight tremble as he places them on her arms, an action he seems uncertain about as he pulls them away almost instantly, leaving his hands to hover awkwardly in the air, “are stunning, truly, even the day we first met and you were soaking wet, I worried I was not going to be able to eke out any words I was so mesmerized by you. And that has not changed, at all and heavens, my words never are right around you and-” 

“Vision.” A featherlight touch of her fingertips to his face begins to rebuild his composure. “Now we’ve both taken the soles off the other’s shoesI.” Finally he offers her an embarrassed yet relieved smile. “I think you are stunning as well, if you were curious.” Wanda snakes her arm around his neck, drawing him down for a reassuring kiss, one she considers elongating, the thump of his pulse against her enlivening, but even this attempt to beguile the evening fails at completely silencing the memory of Ultron’s _mala vještice_. Wanda releases him with a loving pat to his chest. “Would you like to have your drink now?” 

“I would.” 

Vision follows her to the chairs, waiting until she takes her seat to lower himself into his, a slight wince overtaking his face but Wanda knows he would rather she not point out or inquire as to his discomfort, so she doesn’t. Instead she allows him to get comfortable, several seconds of minimal adjustments with his legs and arms before wrapping the two cups in scarlet and sending one into her hands and depositing the other into his. She sips the lukewarm beverage before bringing up her primary curiosity of the evening. “Why is there a hidden passageway in my bedroom?” 

His body turns, knees swinging towards her as he prepares to answer, a half-smile tugging at his lips that she finds herself mirroring simply out of the pleasure to finally have him alone and able to be within reach of her. “This room is typically not used for guests because of the doorway.” The words take on a conspiratorial tone, a secret of the house she feels the need to vow internally to keep safe. “It leads to the servants’ side of the tower. I intended to inform you of this the first night but,” a tiny lift of his shoulders conveys the hectic nature of the visit so far, “Mr. Stark has been quite demanding.” 

Despite his claim to be unable to speak around her, his words are always precise and meaningful, even when skirting the direct reason for his actions. “So, I can use that doorway and not worry about dealing with Stark?” 

“Precisely,” a coy smile parts his lips and sends a spark down her spine, “and if you were to use the passageway, my quarters are just down the hall, to the left, if you ever need to find me.” 

It is amazing, to Wanda, how much thought went into her placement and treatment at the tower given the way she and Clint surprised Vision. Very few people have ever strived so hard to consider her comfort and well-being in general, much less planning out even the tiniest details. Wanda reaches out, bridging the several inches between the armrests of their chairs, and interlaces her fingers through his, “Thank you.” 

A tender squeeze conveys his acceptance of her gratitude. “Did you enjoy the Exhibition today?” 

Enjoyment is not the word she would use for the day, though prior to Ultron she was content. “The Crystal Palace is astonishing.” 

“It is.”  The excitement he harbors about the building animates his features, a jubilant, toothy grin on his face and the blue of his eyes seeming especially bright for so late at night. “It might be the greatest feat of engineering and architecture I have ever beheld.” 

“Even better than Stark’s metal man?” 

If she had asked him the question in front of others, she suspects he would maintain an air of neutrality instead of readily nodding. “The Iron Man is brilliant, but I believe Mr. Stark has been outdone.” 

“A rebel and a traitor.” His self-conscious but thoroughly tickled snort brightens the room, distracting her from the gloom of earlier. “How does it work?” 

“The Iron Man?” Wanda nods and he sets the cup down, his full attention on her. “It is based on the laws of thermodynamics as applied to a relatively simple, yet novel hydraulic system controlled by a series of levers inside the suit itself.” When there’s no response from her, because what he has said is clearly in some language she’s never interacted with before, he tries again, free hand winding his thoughts back to the beginning of his explanation. “It is similar to the steam power we utilized in the engineering for Friday, only on a much smaller and more mobile scale.” 

This helps, a little. “How did it fly?” 

Another energetic and handsome smile creases the skin near his eyes, “That took us almost a year to perfect,” this is the first time she’s ever seen Vision so readily admit his involvement in Stark’s work, even though Stark himself has made it abundantly clear, and it pulls the veil of Vision’s past away just enough for her to peek at the foundation of who he is today. “It is all about establishing the proper power-to-weight ratio of how much steam to utilize given both Mr. Stark’s body mass and the weight of the steel itself.” A tug of her hand makes sure she is paying attention to him, a pointed, delighted stare conveying the exact same energy as a wink. “You would have enjoyed the numerous attempts where Mr. Stark landed on his face.” 

“Oh? Could I maybe,” Wanda points innocently at his temple, a knowing smirk granting her access to his mind. 

They are in a field, a day where the sun is high and bright, the massive metal suit situated several feet from a basin of water, “That was in case it caught fire, again.” Vision’s annotation adds several layers of intrigue but Wanda ignores her questions, focusing on the memory as Vision’s posh yet nervous _You may pull the lever now_ jumpstarts a loud whirring, several puffs of steam rising from the valves in the back as the suit remains still. Then it begins to shake at the knees, the ache of the metal responding to whatever is happening even louder without the cheers of people. The machine begins to rise lopsidedly, the right one lifting exponentially faster than the left, a frantic _Engage the left-hand thruster_ from the butler not reaching Stark in time and the entire Iron Man topples onto the ground. “He was unharmed.” 

Wanda removes herself from his mind, deeply satisfied at the image. “That’s good, I suppose.”  

“Were you able to see any other exhibitions?” 

It’s an innocent question, one punctuated by an amicable scrunch of his fingers in her grasp, but even the encouraging raise of his eyebrows can’t save her mood from toppling over like the Iron Man. Threads of partially true conversations knit into a bundle in her mind, none distinct nor convincing enough for her to tug from her throat. This leaves the one experience she did have, a battle waging at how to proceed, whether she honor’s Natasha’s request to keep silent on all that is happening, if she partially keeps her promise and give Vision enough information to form his own conclusions, like she did on the boat, or if she betrays her word and informs him of the entirety of her contact with Ultron. The first option isn’t truly feasible, not only because it denies Vision the ability to assess any increased danger to himself, but also, selfishly, it keeps her from having a confidant. “I was contacted today, concerning the arc reactor.” 

Guilt surges up from her stomach, devouring the lightness of his visit in time with his own mood crashing down into his typical guarded seriousness. Despite his demeanor closing off, the concern in his voice is palpable and wraps itself snugly around her shoulders. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” a dubious side-eye capsizes her lie, “for the most part.” 

Vision pulls his hand from hers, an action that is unexpectedly upsetting until she sees the reason behind it, his gloves plucked off and laid on the table.  The wavering light of the gaslamps play on the angles of his face and she is reminded of the first time their bare hands touched, mesmerized at the reversal now, his fingers gingerly cupping her hand, raising it up towards his face, but his methods are quite different from her own, instead of his fingertips, he brushes her lifeline with his lips before presenting her the fortune every tittering socialite wants, “We can leave tonight, I just ne-” 

The offer can’t be finished because if it is, she might actually accept it. “No,” he hasn’t released her hand, mildly dejected eyes staring over her palm, “it’s nothing alarming, yet.” Wanda wiggles her fingers, close enough to caress the underside of his chin.   

A faint, unconvinced smile pulls the corner of his mouth up. “What did they want?” 

“He said I still have to prove my closeness to Stark to learn the plan.” 

“How are you supposed to do that?” 

Annoyance and exhaustion drives a sigh out of her mouth, her head shaking as she answers, “I’m not sure.” 

A shallow, thoughtful nod goes along with a scrunched brow, his eyes focusing on their still joined hands for several seconds. “How did you get involved with these,” he hesitates, likely to find the best word to describe something he has no knowledge or information about, but that he realizes is a delicate point of inquiry concerning her past, “individuals?” 

It would be easier to admit her past mistakes if she could justify the truly horrific actions as being a fad of youth and inexperience. Attempting to destroy Stark less than a month before, however, serves as a firm, unavoidable reminder that there is no way to sidestep her past, though, she would argue, she has at least recognized (and did even the evening of the séance) the harm she has caused and is prepared to make any amends possible to rectify her sins. Whether or not Vision will view it similarly is a concern she has attempted to shove deep down, the intent being to expose him a little bit at a time in order to not push him away. Perhaps that was too cowardly of a hope, because now that he is sitting next to her, holding her hand, haloed by the lambent flames behind him, she knows she needs to be honest so that he can determine if she is worthy of trusting with his life. “Remember how I told you I was promised employment for agreeing to be experimented on?” 

“I recall, yes.” 

“Working for these people was what they gave me,” the answer is too vague, so she adds a bit more, “well sort of. I did different tasks in Sokovia than I did in New York.” 

Vision’s mouth puckers as he contemplates the broadness of her words, his eyes never straying far from her face as he carefully tucks each new piece of information away before constructing his next question. “What did your employment require of you?” 

Each mission she and Pietro went on were slightly different, even once she arrived in New York and was found by Ultron, no two jobs were ever the same, there were some similarities, she supposes, if she breaks down each job to its essentials. “One of my main roles was to gather information by reading people’s minds.” 

“That seems logical.” There is an unearned understanding in his words, one that suggests what she did is no different than him needing to polish the candlesticks or once a week perform the unsavory task of cleaning the lanterns. “What else?” 

Minds are extremely malleable, some more than others, but regardless of the individual, it doesn’t take much to shatter the semblance of sanity. Wanda knows this intimately, an entire armory of techniques kept securely in her palms on how to most effectively infiltrate and destroy a person without any physical violence. “Mental manipulation, of varying degrees.” 

She should have suspected his response, yet the curiosity emanating from him and the way he so easily shifts into a scientific mindset catches her off guard, “When you say manipulation, could you specify what that entails?”   

“Anything, really, usually it involved placing a suggestion in someone’s mind and then allowing the person to act on it.” Vision is a person who likes concrete facts and examples, and Wanda has endless images of the confused features of her victims as they suddenly felt an unsubstantiated need to open a door or light a fire or walk towards a window. “For instance,” Wanda glances around them for a fitting hypothetical, “I could easily send a suggestion into your mind about whether or not they remembered to put on the lanterns outside.”

Vision follows her eyes to the window, “Which then would entice me to stand and approach the window.” 

“Yes.” There is no disgust or anger at her manipulative tactics when there should be. It dawns on her why. “Now with you at the window the rest of the plan can commence, whether it is stealing precious items while your back is turned, confirming your location so an attack can be made on your factory, or,” she remembers a steely eyed nobleman who fell, bewitched by her powers, “even placing you in a vulnerable position for the rifleman outside.”  Vision is silent, a brush of his mind confirms he is weighing every syllable of every word and conscientiously trying to piece together the puzzle of her past. This type of mental manipulation was her most common action, tiny suggestions can take hold far better than most people likely realize. Riots can be started easily in such a way, find the right person and twist their discontent just enough and an entire factory, an entire town, even a country can be plunged into chaos. Sometimes, however, more is needed for those who can’t be controlled like a marionette. “It also can be more invasive,” the continued lack of judgment on his face encourages her to continue, “I also," ruined is the first word on her tongue, but it is not harsh enough for the way in which she would twist people's worst fears, or their rage, or their overwhelming guilt into something so devastating it left them physically incapable of functioning, "I assassinated people’s minds.” 

“You murdered people?” 

For the first time, there is a grain of doubt and fear in his voice and it lunges into her chest, hurting far more than it should to feel the possibility forming that she might lose him now. “No, I never directly killed anyone,” the grain blows away, replaced again by his measured, hesitant interest and it feels worse, as if he is willfully ignoring the implications she has been forced to reckon with for herself, “but I might as well have, I don’t know if anyone ever truly recovered from it.”

His thumb rubs against her palm, an action that might be meant to sooth her, him, or maybe both of them. “That was your intention towards Mr. Stark at the séance. By invoking his guilt about what happened to me, you meant to send him into a mental breakdown.” 

The assessment of her actions is entirely accurate and even Stark’s face contorted in much the same way as her other victims--their snarls and gasps, at times, satisfying to behold. “Yes.” 

A second later fear curls its sharp talons around her, head shaking firmly at the dawning question on his face. “Wanda, would you-” 

“No, no Vision, I am not showing you,” he raises a finger to counter her refusal but she won’t let him dictate this demonstration, “I will never do that to you, no matter how minimal of an invasion.” 

One of his hands migrates to her face, his body leaning far over the armrest to allow him to reach her, “You will not harm me.” The blind faith he has is misplaced, over and over and over again, no matter how vehemently she explains it to him. “I trust you.” 

“I don’t trust myself, Vision.” Wanda tears herself from his embrace, showing him her hand engulfed in a furious inferno of scarlet. “I don’t even know what I am anymore, Vision, I used to, before this,” the red grows brighter as she waves her fingers, casting malevolent shadows on his face.

“Wand-” 

A knock silences their conversation, mutual alarm shared in their gaze as they wait silently for another knock. It comes only seconds later along with Clint’s very identifiable voice, “Wanda, you up?” 

Vision jumps out of the chair so quickly Wanda has to use her powers to save the table from falling over. “I should go.” The words are tossed at her in a hurried whisper as he scurries towards the hidden doorway, but she sends a cloud of scarlet out, shutting the passageway before he reaches it. 

“Please,” a scarlet rope loops around his waist, encouraging his feet along the carpet back towards her, “please don’t leave me right now.” 

Clint’s annoyance is clear when he knocks a third time, “Wanda I can hear you in there.”  Once she receives a restrained and silent confirmatory nod from Vision, Wanda answers the door, attempting an innocent smile that falters immediately upon seeing Natasha standing next to Clint. “‘Bout time, we need to chat.” 

“Wanda.” Natasha flashes her an expertly demure smile, hands coming to fold at her waist as she walks towards the seating area of the room. “Good evening, Vision.” The salutation is laced with knowing judgment, one meant to elicit a recoil from the recipient, yet Vision stands admirably still, the epitome of a first-class butler, minus being found in what can only be construed as a very compromising position. 

“Miss Romanov,” Vision bows stiffly towards each person as he addresses them, “Mr. Barton, may I get you anything? I was just about to bring Miss Maximoff another drink.” 

It’s a horrendously transparent lie, one met instantly with a rebuff from Natasha as she circles the table to take a seat, “Two wasn’t enough already?” 

The best course of action is likely to get the visit over with while acting like Vision’s presence in her room, late at night, without any sort of supervision, is not out of the norm. Wanda ushers Clint towards the table, “You wanted to talk?” Natasha accepts the invitation, settling comfortably in a chair situated across the table from the two porcelain mugs, and Clint follows, not nearly as graceful or willing to ignore the scandal of the night, his arms crossed and eyes locked on to Vision, who is not helping by remaining awkwardly standing in the middle of the room. “Vision?” The sound of his name urges his body into action and he approaches the table.  

“Vision, you can retire for the night.” The contradictory statement from Natasha leaves no room for debate and it stops Vision in his path, feet adhered to the floor as he looks to Wanda for some sort of direction. 

No matter what Natasha, or Clint, may desire, Wanda won’t continue to let them control everything. “Vision stays, he already knows everything.” 

Clint tries to intervene, “Wanda, if you’re trying to shake a flanninG with Nat, I’d just drop it now.” 

“No,” the lack of response from the red-haired woman is concerning, but Wanda takes it to mean there is hope she can argue her case, “Vision deserves to know.” She can see the question of why on the faces across the table and a brief glance at Vision’s small, tired attempt at an encouraging wave of his hand provides her the reluctant approval to keep talking. “He’s the one that can die from this.” 

Natasha’s posture stiffens as she scoots forward in her chair, eyes locked on where Vision stands. It might be the first and only time Wanda will ever see the spy bewildered by her own ignorance. Everyone is silent, expectations swirling of who talks next, whether Wanda espouses on the information, if Natasha or Clint ask more, but what was not intended was for Vision to fill the void of conversation. “The arc reactor powers the medical device I need for treatment. Nothing else Mr. Stark or I have tried provides enough continuous energy for the infusion pump.” 

“And if the machine stopped working?” Clint throws out the question despite the answer already available to everyone. 

Vision answers in a deadpan manner, “It will take approximately three months before I can no longer function.” 

A solemnity  weighs down the air around them, a realization that this is not just about saving Stark’s money and scientific integrity (neither of which would really harm him, all things considered). Natasha concedes to Wanda’s request while also acknowledging, once again, the unspoken immorality of whatever was happening prior to now, “Vision, you can sit _back_ down.” He joins them at the table, body tense as he lowers back into the chair he so comfortably occupied earlier and his eyes trained on the wall above Clint’s head. The attention of the room finally leaves him and returns to Wanda. “Did you learn anything today?” Natasha is not one to waste time and Wanda intends to echo that sentiment and bring this conversation to an end as soon as possible. 

“I was informed that I need to do more to prove my worth to the operation.” 

The two intruders share a look, a silent conversation transmitting between them with no tells as to the content. Clint elects himself as the speaker, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees, “Tall fellow, bowler cap, slight limp?” An apt description of Ultron. “He was circling for a while. So,” Clint’s voice becomes friendly and supportive, a man who always seems to favor a less intimidating approach than the woman next to him. “How does one prove their worth?” 

Wanda throws her hands up, tired of thinking about it and frustrated at the lack of an answer, “I have no idea beyond having to prove I could get him the Iron Man.” 

“Do you have to actually get the Iron Man?” 

Natasha’s question is the same as what Wanda’s contemplated off and on throughout the day. Based on the one-sided conversation with Ultron, it seemed only pertinent that she just shows the potential to procure the device. “I don’t think so, just that I have the means to get it.” 

The best option is readily apparent, which is why Wanda isn’t surprised when Nat offers it immediately, though she is confused when Clint, the only person she thought was in the dark, seems nonplussed at the suggestion, “Why not just read his mind?” 

Touching Ultron’s mind was the impetus for her flight to the less populated parts of the state, the ultimate goal of his endeavors too sickening to handle, the images still plague her in the middle of the night. “I will never do that again.” A challenge forms on the spy’s face and Wanda squashes it before it can be uttered, “I refuse. There has to be another way.” 

The only person willing to toss out ideas right away is Clint, “You’re staying at the tower.” 

Wanda shakes her head, “He said that’s not good enough, he can get people into the tower if need be.” 

“You stayed at the manor before that.” 

This time Natasha eliminates Clint’s suggestion, “That’s no different than staying at the tower, especially since everyone assumes the arc reactor is kept here.” 

“Okay,” Clint slouches into the chair, placing his dirty boots on the table, an action that actually draws Vision’s attention away from the sconce on the wall to the impolite comfort of the man across from him. “What if we spread a rumor that Tony’s having an affair with you?”   

The idea is met with immediate rejection, every single person shaking their heads as Natasha outlines why that would fail, “He’s too deep into his courtship with Pepper, no one would believe it and there is no way Wanda or Tony would be willing to go along with that.” An exasperated huff greets the words and Clint goes silent. “Vision,” all eyes turn towards the butler, his own gaze meeting Natasha’s, “you look like you have an idea.” 

“I do.” The sheer amount of attention is more than he is used to, his stature drooping as they all stare at him, eyes refusing to look anywhere but at the table where his gloves lie unhelpfully out of reach. They’ve already been discovered, or at least that’s Wanda’s conclusion, which means it’s only a bit more damning for her to reach out and grasp his hand, applying a reassuring pressure to help him share his thoughts. Vision sighs before finally addressing the table. “The solution is fairly simple. Everyone knows that if you cannot get directly to the man, the next best option is his butler.”  The sorrowful arc of his mouth concerns her, but not as much as his willingness to kiss the top of her hand in front of the others. “We,” his attention is wholly on Wanda now, “make our courtship public, let them see how close you are to me and that should be enough to convince them you have access to anything in Mr. Stark’s purview.” 

“I’m sorry, make your what public?” 

The blacksmith’s incredulity is ignored by Wanda, “I’m not bringing you into this, Vizh.” 

“Wanda, I’m already involved.” 

“He’s right,” of course Natasha would approve of his suggestion. “You have the butler, you don’t need anything else. Really, of all people, Wanda, you should understand this the best.” 

Every insinuation of the comment is wrong, her entanglement with Vision, though convenient for getting her close to Stark, was never intended as a means to an end. She even tried to run when she found out about his connection to Stark. But there is no way to convince anyone on the outside about it. Regardless, she snaps to attention, ready to deny the comment, but Vision beats her to it, his voice hard, its neutrality fracturing under the anger he’s barely suppressing. “All of us have experiences we wish to forget and I would assume that of all people in this room, Miss Romanov, you would be the most receptive to an attempt at redemption from an unsavory past. Unless I am mistaken in my information.” 

Wanda’s eyes bounce between Vision and the red-haired woman, neither of them showing any emotion or weakness in the confrontation, then the spy’s mouth tips into caustic amusement, “Butlers really do know everything.” 

“We do, people are so dismissive of house servants they forget we even exist and talk openly on topics they likely don’t want overheard.” The level of unrepentant insubordination is enough for a dismissal from his position, thankfully Stark is perhaps the only employer who would not only find this supremely amusing but would, if he were here, keep prodding Vision to increase his ire.   

Instead of tiptoeing into the tension, Clint crashes in, “Great. All knowing butler, happy couple, that’ll work. So how do we do this?” 

Vision runs his thumb along her wrist, angling his body towards Wanda in a way that blocks out the others, narrowing the room to include just the two of them. “Since you showed up at the docks, I have spent my spare moments planning my day off at the Exhibition with the hope of your company.”  It’s an ideal plan, a public location and plenty of time to establish a relationship to prying eyes. More than that is the comfort of not only knowing he’s confident enough in their connection to plan such a day but also that he was going to suggest it anyway. The last thing she wants in their courtship is a sense of coercion or discomfort. “If you are amenable, I can request my day be moved earlier and we can spend an entire afternoon together.” 

Another pass of his fingertip along her vein and Wanda offers him a beaming smile, “Sounds wonderful.” 

“We’ll stay in close proximity in case anything happens.” 

Clint latches on to Natasha’s addition with a fatherly wink, “We’ll be your chaperones.” 

His tone implies it is a facetious suggestion, but Ultron needs to know she has an intimate connection to Stark, and for him that usually means true and absolute control of a situation. Courtship is one of the more structured aspects of etiquette, one that, based on salacious stories she has heard at her seance tables, has inspired carefully constructed acts of rebellion such as napkin signals, an entire language based on the placement of ladies’ fans, and calling cards printed with barely veiled innuendoK. Sometimes it seems a courtship isn’t valid unless there is an attempt to escape the decorum of it all.  “Our relationship alone won’t be enough, if we do this without any sort of proper procedure, it may not be believed.” 

There isn’t disagreement, per se, but Natasha and Vision appear deep in thought over the suggestion, while Clint merely flashes Wanda a smile of approval. Natasha speaks up eventually, “But if we are with you all day, it won’t allow any chance for them to contact you again.” 

Wanda grins, already prepared for this concern, “That’s why we do what any young couple would do in such a situation, go filly and foal.” Rhodes' observation of Vision's change in behavior cemented in his own mind the veracity of their relationship, it's possible that the most convincing sign of control is to show she can get the well-regarded and excruciatingly polite butler to break the rules of etiquette. “If I can get Vision to follow me, it could help establish that I can get Stark's closely guarded secrets” 

“Makes sense.” Clint's acquiescence is marked with suspicion, the syllables slow as his eyes bounce from Wanda to Vision. 

“Given the arc reactor demonstration is in five days," Vision's voice is even and considerate, the same tone he uses when informing guests of the schedule for the day, "I will speak with Mr. Stark tonight about the immediacy of my day off.” Natasha appears ready to jump onto his comment, until Vision, as any good butler would, is already a step ahead of her, even if the deep sigh he heaves betrays his disagreement with what he is saying, “I will be vague, for now, about the reasons for my absence.” 

"Very well." Natasha stands, dictating the end of their meeting, seemingly pleased with the advances in the plan. “Vision, once you have confirmation of a day, inform me and I will work with Wanda on preparations.” 

Vision rises as well, followed by Clint and then Wanda, his hands traveling behind his back in an attempt to reclaim his typical demeanor. “I will.” 

When Natasha walks out the door, the two men follow, but Wanda grabs onto Vision’s arm to hold him back just a bit longer. He doesn’t resist, steps slowing and body rotating to face her with an attempt at a breezy smile meant to mask his uneasiness. Wanda tightens her fingers around his hands. “Thank you.” 

Confusion furrows his brow as his head cocks slightly to the right, “For what?” 

There is more than enough things for her to be grateful of Vision, from his willingness to listen to her, his desire to understand not just her powers but her as a person, the regard he has for her despite it all, and the company he provides (a sliver of paradise in amongst the hell that is the world), but tonight there is only one thing that is far more important than any other. “For trusting me when no one else does.” 

A mournful frown wars with a soft smile, contorting his face into indecision. Wordlessly he runs his hands up her arms, stopping just beneath her shoulders and then his eyes bore into her soul. She almost flinches at the intensity, but instead gives in fully, meeting the brilliant blue of his irises and refusing to blink so she doesn’t miss the adoration on his face. “Wanda, I wish people could see you the way I do,” he steps closer, palm skimming along her cheek while his fingers dip into her hair, “then they would not hesitate to trust you.” 

True, undiluted, non-manipulative sincerity isn’t a normality in her life and it’s disarming, leaving her unbalanced but also enthralled. Wanda launches into his arms, latching onto him to regain her footing, thrilled at the instinctive response to embrace her, his arms encircling her waist and his hands gripping onto her as if she is his lifeline just as much as he is hers. She crushes her lips to his, a heady rush guiding her to press closer, the firmness of his chest and the slight waft of metal sending her senses careening. 

“Hey!” And all at once the world sobers around them, Clint’s voice cheerfully impish, “Chaperoning has commenced.” One day he will get to do this for his own children, and, unfortunately, until then, it seems he intends to practice his parental interference and timing with them. “Come along, Vision.” 

Vision ignores the command long enough to place a chaste (and seemingly Clint-approved) kiss to her fingers. “Goodnight, Wanda.” 

“Goodnight, Vision.” She closes the door behind them and stares at the dark, spacious room, mind swirling in an attempt to make sense of the day and prepare for what comes next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victorian Language and Culture Decoder  
> AThe Crystal Palace was considered the crowning achievement of the Exhibition of Industry of Nations. It was modeled off of the Crystal Palace from the Exhibition that was held two years prior in London, but was much larger. Next chapter I’ll give you all a really cool website to see what it was like inside, but you’ll have to wait until the chapter where they actually spend more time in it :D Here is a picture of the outside if you are curious: (https://static01.nyt.com/images/2017/04/28/arts/28crystal-1/28crystal-1-articleLarge.jpg?quality=75&auto=webp&disable=upscale)  
> B Moja mala vještice: My little witch  
> C Natty Narking: great fun  
> D Keep your ‘air on: Be patient  
> F The can-can debuted in France in 1840 but was not officially introduced to the US until 1867. I figured if Tony Stark was alive back then, he’d have brought it over sooner.  
> G Painted ladies: prostitutes  
> H  Get a glow: start to blush  
> I Take the soles off your shoes: utterly surprised  
>  J  Shake a flannin’: Start a fight  
>  K  Seriously, courtship in Victorian times was wild, though I suppose people will say the same thing about our dating culture now. Here’s a fun website with some information: https://allthatsinteresting.com/victorian-dating-rituals. There were additional rituals depending on the area, like the bundling from a previous chapter. 
> 
>    
> Kudos and comments always appreciated! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Happy New Year!!


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